


A Merry Christmas

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Series: A Holly Jolly Fix-It [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Booklover Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Christmas overload, Fix-It, Fluff, Food, Gen, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Memory Issues, One Of These Endeavors Will Fail, Steve Rogers Has Chill, Steve Rogers Tries Not to Be a Kissing Fool, Steve Rogers Tries Not to Punch Everything, Steve Rogers in love, Trust Issues, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-02 13:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12727887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: All I want for Christmas is my two hot supersoldiers groping each other while planning to save the world. Standard Winter Soldier angst levels except with smooches and cuddles.The sequel I never saw coming. Guest stars. Wordplay. Nutcracking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still have no idea what I'm doing. Edit: Christmas-heavy, though the characters stormed in with more winter festivals. Mentions of non-exclusive dating, but likely won't register as cheating. (*Try not to read while listening to Frosty the Snowman, because that's an AU that needs to go on a _rampage_.) I'm such a sucker; this mix of curtain-fic and plotty action is... I don't knowww. Flaction? A sucker bet. Harder-rated canoodling shuffled to next fic for length (get it? length.) Enjoy. —Russian dialogue—
> 
> Canon not mine, not endorsing canon, characterization suspect in spots.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batroc does not get the number of the reindeer that hit him.

unauthorized duplication and distribution prohibited 

### A-Leapin'

  
This section of the Lemurian Star's deck hadn't lost its coating of SHIELD-issue antifreeze, so Steve had enough traction to knock Batroc through the door. They skidded into the control room on a trail of blue slime.

At this point, Steve discovered the answer to the ancient riddle: what is the sound of two assassins fighting? _They don't make a sound,_ Steve thought as he ripped out his own earbug, _because they're using your fight for cover._ Batroc was similarly startled, and Steve clocked him before he could recognize the Winter Soldier pulling unnaturally acrobatic feats with an office chair.

"Cut it out, you two!" Steve whisper-shouted.

His relief at Bucky actually halting his momentum was snuffed out when the Black Widow went for his jugular with a ballpoint pen. To his credit, Bucky ducked.

"If we don't stop, he'll keep talking," Bucky warned Natasha, twisting her arm with a metal grip, "And then we'll both get his Disappointed Look. You don't," he said, shoving her into the chair and kicking her away, "want that."

Without taking his eyes off the melee, Steve lined up the shield with the broken door hinge and punched through till it was fit for rehanging. He jammed the door in place, and engaged at least one lock. Stepping over Batroc, he tried to be stern. "What are you doing here?"

He really ought to have specified.

Bucky was tracking Natasha, who had broken his hold and flipped to her feet atop a console. She was looking from one to the other with eyebrows raised to her bloodied hairline. "Trying not to kill Rumlow," answered Bucky.

"You too, huh?"

"Oh," said Bucky, pleased, and Steve tried not to be too warmed up by that, "You figured that out."

"Wasn't hard," said Steve. Trying not to purr. "I'd love to chat, but I need your mission specs." He glanced at Natasha. "You too, Nat. I know you're here for Fury."

Natasha gave voice to what she'd been thinking. "What the hell, Rogers?" With that, she leaped at Bucky.

From what Steve could discern in fractions of a second, Bucky blocked her garrotte with both his forearms, got them wrapped up together, and tumbled her all the way over in a move that would've cracked her skull if she hadn't helicopter-twisted to clip his ear with her knee. Steve vaulted the console, grabbed what he hoped was a combat knife from one of Bucky's many holsters, and wedged his own mass between them. With the blade and the edge of his shield, he managed to snap Natasha's garrotte, separating them.

All in relative silence.

"Bucky," he gulped, as somebody's stray kick got him in the side. "Did you not apologize for shooting her?"

"I was going to," Bucky said petulantly. "She started it. Thanks for the name-drop, by the way," he grumbled at Steve.

"Hey, I did not swan into the Indian Ocean for fun," Steve said. He offered Natasha a hand, since she might not take it from Bucky. "No bugs on me. Comms are off. I assume you two deactivated everything in this room. And don't change the subject."

Bucky rubbed at his bruise, both hands clearly in sight. He made a... duckface as Steve levered Nat up. He turned slightly in her direction without giving up his position. —I'm sorry you got between me and my target, and I shot you in an entirely survivable location from four hundred yards,— he said in Russian.

"That's a terrible apology," Steve said.

—For Russians, that's not bad,— said Nat, dusting herself off.

—You didn't need that appendix anyway.—

Natasha narrowed her eyes. —I have all these bikinis I can't use. You'd look great in them.—

Steve turned pink.

"You learned Russian, Steve?" Bucky said, grinning. He plucked the knife from Steve's fingers, and inspected its edge.

"Of course I did." It was a better use of his time than pining, and getting a crick in his neck looking for Hydra. Halloween felt like ... decades ago. Steve was _not_ dwelling on Bucky's current black strapped number, lest he idly doodle his deceased best friend starring as an apocryphal assassin. He tried not to stare as Bucky spun the knife before sheathing it.

"That's sweet of you," Bucky remarked.

" _Wow_ ," said Natasha. She didn't move, but her eyes tracked Bucky.

"Download the data, I'll secure the Leaping Frog."

Steve roused himself to toss Bucky the cuffs. "That might be offensive," he said, as though he hadn't been completely distracted.

"Nobody's old enough to remember that it's offensive," said Bucky. He deliberately turned his back on them and bent over to put the cuffs on Batroc.

Steve steeled his jaw to refrain from drooling.

Nat didn't bother to hide. She mouthed Oh My God at him.

For a whole second, Steve couldn't dredge up a response. "...what are you doing here, Nat?"

"Like you said, a job for Nick. Why does your Soviet pen-pal want this data?"

Bucky, Steve noted with pride, had stuffed earplugs into Batroc's unresponsive head. How thorough. "Bucky," he said, his voice dipping an octave. "What's so vital about the data?" He prevented himself, barely, from smooching Bucky's betrayed look. "She won't make you a copy until you give. Give."

With a grim set to his mouth, Bucky strode past Steve. And patted his ass. "Links to the doctor." Steve flinched. Not from the slap; the doctor was Arnim Zola. "All the word is that he's in a box somewhere. This might be the only lead."

"And did your Stevie-boo tell you that?" said Natasha. One brow raised. 

"I had no idea he'd be here," Steve gritted.

"You don't actually know everything, Rogers?"

"Of course not," Steve huffed.

Pointedly, Natasha resumed the download. "Since Cap's too compromised to explain, I'll ask you, Soldat. What the hell?"

"Brainwashing."

She wrinkled her nose. "Yuck. You clear?"

"Mostly," grimaced Bucky. "Enough to know I need that data."

"Not a chance," said Nat briskly.

The metal hand clenched. "I'm not leaving here without—"

"If," Natasha said, "I'm looking for a leak, you're not leaving here without clearing Rogers."

Before anyone could launch into a Captain America history lesson, Steve said, "Now might be the time to mention I'm only trusting you, Nat, because Bucky vouched for you." He did have a soft spot for spies, but spycraft sure was wearisome. As the kids said: over it. 

They glared daggers at each other. But only for a moment, and only metaphorically.

It was Bucky who gave in. "Contact. On the inside."

"Rumlow?" hazarded Natasha.

"Rhymes with fuck no," said Bucky. "You might wanna pick up the pace before I burn his face off."

"Who, then?" said Nat rhetorically. "Sitwell?" She and Steve exchanged looks. "I'm the only agent on-site on Fury's direct orders."

"Would Saint Nick tell you if there were anyone else?" asked Steve.

Natasha twitched.

"I can't verify my source," Bucky admitted.

"Maybe it's another of Fury's angles," said Steve. Nat was visibly more interested.

Bucky shook his head. "Not directly. Didn't have time to suss it out, other than their handler has mobile command and a personal connection."

"That could be _Thor_ ," scoffed Natasha.

"Whatever we decide," Steve broke in, "We have to get our stories straight. Nat, if you were supposed to be helping with the hostages—"

"I'll report that Batroc left us a present. To Nick too," she said smoothly. "As for the data, Soldat, I'll rendezvous with your honeybunches—"

— _Spider_....!—

"This takes time, which we don't have. And I have to pretend Batroc got a hit in, which is bad for the resumé. Rogers, if you boost yourself to the port deck, section 140, you can get back to the hostages—"

" _Nyet!_ " Bucky hissed. He advanced on Natasha. Alarmed, Steve stepped in his way. Bucky did halt; he grabbed the leather shield straps, pulling Steve a half-step closer, protective. Over Steve's shoulder, a metal pointer finger jabbed at Natasha. "Don't. Leave him alone. With Rumlow. Or any of them. _Ever._ "

Natasha uncoiled from her sudden and very tense defensive stance. "I'll stick to him like glue," she promised.

Whatever Bucky saw in her expression satisfied him; he plucked at Steve's straps.

Steve's blush heated up. "I'll just... get Batroc, then. Since I had to help you finish him off."

"Central utility corridor clear," Natasha said with a chilly affirmative. She finished up; the memory stick disappeared somewhere into her suit. She stole a glance at Bucky. "Does that mean I can make out with him?"

Steve nearly dropped Batroc. He wasn't sure how many concussions they could sell as normal combat effects.

"Will it save his life?" Bucky gripped the repaired door and with one yank, re-collapsed the metal into roughly the same shape that Steve and Batroc had smashed into it.

Steve was sweating.

"Maybe," Natasha replied, automatically taking point.

"Hey," Steve protested. Jumping over the door, he bounced Batroc into a more secure hold, though he wasn't _that_ heavy. 

With his metal hand, Bucky scooped up the Captain America helmet where Steve had dropped it on the deck. He pinned Steve with a baleful stare. Steve was pretty sure the zing of fear was not normally accompanied by excitement.

Without missing a beat, Bucky picked up his conversation with Natasha. A little hushed walk-and-talk wouldn't be cause for suspicion, thanks to Nat's penchant for on-mission chatter. "You plant one on him, are you asking him first?" He tested his weight on Nat's grappling line.

On the other hand, a squawk of outrage would probably get them caught.

"Of course." One by one, they went over the railing and swung into the lower deck. "I can be a lady."

The muffled thump on the side was probably Batroc.

Bucky sneaked a look around the corner, and slipped under the stairwell to cover while they darted into the central corridor. 

"Don't ever kiss her with lipstick on," he said to Steve as he passed by.

"Him or me?" said Natasha.

On the next advance Steve opened his mouth to say something, only to have Bucky intercept him with a kiss.

A second later, the metal arm shot out to steady Batroc's shoulder before Steve dropped him.

"What was that for...?" Steve gasped. They were doing well on noise suppression, but his ears were buzzing.

"To demonstrate that I don't have lipstick on."

"I don't have my notebook on me, could you run that by me again?"

"Yikes," Natasha said. "You really are compromised!"

"That's what I told him," said Bucky. Mirroring their last encounter, he popped the Captain America helmet back on Steve's head. With two fingers, he tapped the strap in place. Steve could feel Natasha's smirk like the poke of a rifle butt. Then Bucky took Steve by the shoulders — and spun him around to the far end of the corridor.

Steve got himself marching. Batroc felt like a particularly annoying sack of junk. Then he stopped at an intercom, signaled quiet, and dialed. "This is Cap. I've got Romanoff. Batroc secured. Off-comms, ETA five."

He punched the box to smithereens.

Natasha fell in step right behind him. "So," she cooed, "how did you two meet?"

Steve hesitated over the interrogation gambit; Bucky didn't.

"I found him in a trash can."

Natasha's smile spoke volumes. "Classy."

"Oh, God. Of all the things to remember—!"

Thump, went Batroc's head. Oops.

—We must become best friends, so you can dish all the dirt on him.—

"Only if that home delivery includes an uncorrupted copy of the data."

"You drive a hard bargain. Done."

"Joke's on you, I don't remember all that much."

They crept through the engine room in case of the rare instance that any of Natasha's targets were conscious. 

Steve had to ask. It would be the responsible thing. "Buck, how are you extracting?"

Bucky shrugged. "I could always hitch on your quinjet."

There was no room to stow away on the interior... oh. "Outside?! You'll be thrown off for sure! Bucky, this is the middle of the Indian Ocean! In the winter!"

—Is he even aware of your designation?— said Natasha to Bucky.

"You'll never be found again!" said Steve, beside himself.

"Oh, really, and what were you just doing?" Bucky crossed his arms. "What was he just doing, Widow?"

"Jumping out of a quinjet into the Indian Ocean." Said Natasha dryly. Before Steve could work up a froth, she flashed her phone under his nose, and started tapping. "In the summer. Granted, you can expect an Antarctic storm, but for you boys it might as well be a jacuzzi. As much as I will treasure this lover's tiff forever and ever, there's another way off. The SHIELD cleanup crew is ninety minutes behind us. I'm opening a security hole."

For the first time, Bucky looked uncertain. "Are you sure that...?"

"And give that grenade back," said Nat without looking.

Steve raised his brows.

"I swiped it fair and square. I need something if I'm stowing away on a SHIELD ship."

Natasha paused. Glanced at him. "Fine," she said.

Bucky spared Steve a speaking look that of course he wouldn't blow anybody up without due cause.

The last junction was coming up ahead. Steve was grasping for an appropriate farewell when Bucky spoke.

"Speaking of explosives. You doing something about Stark?"

Steve and Natasha turned around. Batroc bumped a wall.

"Tony? What about him?" said Natasha.

Bucky shoved them forward, perhaps elbowing Batroc in the process. "Ordnance and personnel on the move, Stateside. Independent. SHIELD's sticking him with the bill. I don't think it's to wish him a Merry Christmas."

Amidst rising panic, Steve calculated the best route from the Indian Subcontinent to Malibu. "We could alter course, make it back..."

"No," Natasha cut him off. "Your boyfriend just told me I can't let you out of my sight. And I have to follow up on this in DC. You're with me, Cap." Her eyebrows questioned the reliability of Bucky's intel.

It was Bucky who objected. "You can't send just anybody after Stark. SHIELD can't pick up on them, and they have to be completely trustworthy."

"Bruce?" suggested Steve.

Natasha was tapping away. "No, Bruce is fishing your sweetie pie out of the Indian Ocean."

Steve blamed the mental whiplash for backing Batroc into a fire extinguisher.

Bucky said faintly, "And this won't be lethal?"

"The SHIELD transport's probably not safe enough for Cap's blood pressure. It can, however, take a stowaway doctor whom people don't argue with. You tipped us off to Stark," Natasha explained. "In fact, I'll make the drop myself. You remember that bridge Korsak liked?"

Bucky's brow creased. Adorably, Steve thought. "If it's on the bus route—and if I survive your jolly green friend—I'll find it."

"You'd better be nice to Bruce. Come here and let me whisper directions."

"Only if it's all right with my _boyfriend_." Bucky had a wicked smirk.

"Am I supposed to survive this from both of you?"

"Suck it up, Rogers."

"Yeah, Rogers."

"Right." Steve busied himself with checking if Batroc was still unconscious. And breathing.

"Got it. Here I go—" Bucky was dragged into a kiss, wedged between a bulkhead and Batroc's butt. "What was that for?"

"Be home for Christmas," Steve said.

"Count on it," said Bucky, and then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America and Black Widow hit the mall.
> 
> (Warns: This is the holiday sads interlude, like that feeling when Steve forces a smile for Peggy. Except much lighter. Much.)

### Their Treasures

Steve thought he would have more time before Natasha resumed her interrogation. Wrong again. She waited until they were in the back of the quinjet, surrounded by a Hydra sleeper cell.

"So, Steve."

The temptation to overdo it with the stinging antiseptic was quite strong. "What, Nat."

"All those dates I set you up on."

"Christ, give me strength," muttered Steve.

Natasha's smirk widened. "Here I thought you were hung up on Wilson."

"He's a friend. And he's hung up on this nurse in Hell's Kitchen."

"I'm going to ask you a question," she said, playful as a sharp-clawed kitten, "You don't have to answer it, though if you don't, I feel like that might be—"

"Spit it out."

It was a bit creepy that she could pull off an angelic look. "What _are_ your plans for Saturday night?"

Steve ignored the pricked ears from the rest of the cabin. 

"I was thinking... of Christmas shopping. You want to come along?" he finished brightly.

Heavenly innocence turned to horror. "You're not talking about a flea market, are you."

"...had enough of rummaging in the Great Depression." Steve had nearly slipped and said 'we.' To cover it up, he grinned down at Natasha. "What's the matter? Don't want to be spotted in a mall with Captain America?"

Natasha was aghast. "Rogers, did you not get the same capitalist propaganda that I did? Do you know how many days it is to Christmas? Not to mention the first night of Channukah. You'll be mobbed worse than the mall Santa."

"We had Macy's 'back in the day,' and Thomas Nast hyped Santa Claus decades before I was born. I even drank Coca-Cola." Steve relented. "Come on, how else am I getting you a present that you actually want?"

Natasha looked cautiously intrigued.

Gotcha.

"You're going to break out the charge account for me, Cap?"

"No," said Steve. "I'm going to avoid spending the entirety of next year listenin' to you bellyache about the present you got. Or is that too capitalist for you?"

"I'll grab my kicks, and we'll go."

*

The less said of the debrief, the better. Keep ears open and mouth shut — this time Steve noted Natasha doing the same. The terseness passed unnoticed.

Steve noted who was in a rush to leave, and who was staying late.

Natasha made a show of switching off the listening devices in her car. She didn't even mock him when he asked her to parallel park at a metered space so he could run his hands up and down the body.

Well, it was a sweet ride. Steve would probably drive it like a jeep and wreck it at the first sign of Hydra... which was everywhere, so. Better that Natasha was driving.

She flipped on the commercial-free holiday station. Porky Pig stammered through Blue Christmas loud enough to rattle the windows.

"Bucky is a real name?"

"I should tag you for being insensitive about my dead best friend."

"It's not a call sign?"

Steve stared at her. She'd gone to the Smithsonian exhibit with him, because Sam said he wasn't allowed if that was his plan to ugly-cry in public. Which was a lie; he needed privacy for that. 

"Rogers, you had a teammate named 'Dum Dum'!"

"Fair enough." Steve caught his reflection in the side window — which was speckled with dried raindrops. She'd parked it outside. A surveillance job, most likely. She'd probably drive it to the drop-point. Drawing a big heart on that layer of dust probably wouldn't go unnoticed. Probably. This was Nat; if Steve thought about it too hard, that was just asking for a car wash. "There were a lot of James's in our class. Bucky didn't want to be another Jimmy from Brooklyn. Made him sound like a wiseguy."

"So he picked 'Bucky.'"

"It's what his Mom called him." It was strange talking to Natasha about Bucky. And intrusive, with Bucky absent. It was Steve's fault for putting off telling his friends. He wouldn't be there the next time they met, and all he had by way of preventing them killing each other was his flawless memory and naked sincerity. "He might not even remember her."

Sincerity just made Steve miss him more.

"I don't remember my mother," Natasha offered with overdone blitheness. Her version of sympathy. "Whoever he is, he won't be alone. I know a cemetery-full of dead people. Thanks to you, I know a museum full of fossils, too." Steve rolled his eyes. The track on the radio was fading into ad-libbed hysterics. A smirk was growing on Natasha's lips. "Oddly enough, I don't know many two-timing patriotic emblems. Must be my sheltered lifestyle. _Why_ did you go on those dates?"

"Dinner with interesting people." It was to divert attention, and they both knew it. "Give yourself some credit," he said gamely. "They were all good conversationalists."

"That wasn't the linguistics I was shooting for, but I'll take it."

"And I figured if he was watching, he might get jealous."

Nat fanned her collarbone in an exaggerated Scarlett O'Hara. "Steven. _I never._ Did it work?"

"Not well enough. If you're going to pester me about how far we've gone—"

"I am about to do exactly that."

"—you saw it."

"We should make out."

"Something tells me he'd be more amused than jealous. Besides, I'm too worried about Tony."

"Whom do I trust, Steve?" said Natasha, and when he looked over, her hand hadn't moved. Her thumb was catching on... oh. The necklace. With the arrow charm.

Clint could get a lot done off the books. Any force moving against Tony would necessarily be up to challenging a hardened Stark security, and operating beyond SHIELD's long reach. Clint could pick out what everyone else had missed. And Bruce could evade almost anyone. Assuming he had parted with Bucky, and hopped a flight to get over the barrier of the Himalayas — Steve had already estimated the timing on the Hulk's possible route across the sea ice. Tony could trust Bruce. And Natasha trusted Clint to do anything for her.

Steve didn't— couldn't ask her if he was on that list.

They had to wait, and keep watch. Warning Tony was out of the question. As much as it rubbed Steve the wrong way, he knew he and Nat would be caught by SHIELD tech. And they didn't know if Bucky's information was solid. If it was all an elaborate trap, if Tony's enemies weren't truly independent like Bucky said...

Clint and Bruce would have to do.

Ruefully, Steve could admit it: he had to make it on that list. He was out of his depth. He needed Natasha.

He'd never been untrusted before.

They were a team, Steve reminded himself. Even Tony had said so. He could prove it to Nat... without saying or doing anything to tip off SHIELD. And Hydra.

Piece of cake.

*

Natasha steered them into the first store from the parking lot, which happened to sell clothing for ironic teens. Not coincidentally. "I'm not getting mobbed at the mall," she said, before following him into the fitting room to steal the clothes he was wearing.

Steve gritted his teeth, got dressed, and tied his shoes. Future clothes were so ill-fitting. He'd put his nose to the grindstone for years imagining a posh life of no more hand-me-downs. Then his first tailored outfit was a stage costume, and his first billionaire publicly cycled through a variety of threadbare undershirts. At least textiles were better — the pricey ones could cling to anyone's dimensions.

If he was going to feel properly ridiculous, he might as well go all the way. Their next stop was a kiosk full of reading glasses.

"These are pretty strong," murmured Natasha. "I could source ones with fake lenses."

"Give me a second," said Steve.

The serum allowed him to refocus. He was supposed to get a headache, but the serum counteracted that, too.

"Hm," said Natasha. "Geek chic. Doesn't suit you at all," she said approvingly.

"I'm supposed to look like my girlfriend dressed me," said Steve.

She stuck her tongue out.

With everyone else wrapped up in their own holiday lists, they managed to wander down a wing without being recognized. Or Steve's head imploding from Natasha's unrelenting, inquisitive stare. 

They popped into a technology store with stuffed with gadgets and massaging chairs. In defiance of their unease, they played a game of Tony Would / Tony Wouldn't, embellished with Of Course Tony Would. Steve didn't break anything this time. The staff seemed to know exactly who they were, and without a fuss came up with an lighted scoreboard (because of course they sold that too). Natasha won. On a technicality. Steve insisted she should get zero points for actual Stark products, particularly since she'd memorized their catalog.

Steve guided them to the lower level to some corner shops next to the gumball machines, exiled far from the anchor stores and the food court. He'd spotted it on the map; his hunch was rewarded by a leather and luggage store... with a decent selection of hand-forged knives.

"Happy Christmas," he said to Natasha.

She was gratifyingly surprised. "I thought you were joking."

Steve shrugged. Here in the back of the store, they were walled up in semi-privacy by racks of luggage. "You prefer a throwing knife or a slicer or a chopper?"

Natasha wasted no time examining the merchandise. "You know a lot of about blades."

"Didn't you read my file? I dated a spy." Even with a leg up from the serum, Steve had a long way to go when it came to bladed weapons. It was the weird imbalance between his hands now and his hands before. And the fact that it was generally a bad idea to lose said weapon in the midst of a fight. Steve was in awe of anyone with those skills. "I was thinking of getting one for... my friend, but I'm not sure what would meet his standards."

"What about _my_ standards?" Nat said in her best haughty assassin voice.

"It's a gift. You don't _need_ a knife. You do want one."

Natasha narrowed her eyes, then returned to browsing, her disinterest entirely affected. "You're a soft touch, Rogers. It's going to get you in trouble."

"Bucky always said so."

"You should get him a knife," she pushed.

Steve idly spun a desk globe. "Not sure if it's that serious yet."

"You weren't kidding. Have you even been on a date?"

"Not if you don't count making time in Sam's front hall bathroom," Steve mumbled.

"You sucked face in Sam's mother's house?!"

Steve made himself not crane around to check for eavesdroppers. "It's actually his sister's—"

"That's his mother's house and you know it." Nat was tonguing her cheek like she was sucking a lollipop. Positively delighted. "You know, you can skip the present. Your hidden depths will keep me warm _all season long_."

"I don't want to know what keeps you warm, Nat."

"Sam doesn't know, does he."

" _Natasha._ "

"I think I want a carbon-fiber holster for that knife."

In the face of this casual extortion, Steve gave it consideration, and picked up the voucher tags to ring them up. "I'm getting it engraved with one of those cats from that feeding game."

"It's called an app. And that would be satisfactory."

*

Because Natasha insisted they stop at the gift-wrapping station — "It's a _gift_ , Steve," — they had to make their way to the center of the mall. That's where they were intercepted.

Of course the kids were the ones who made him. They always knew Steve Rogers when they saw him. Steve herded them around a corner so as not to cause a jam, or look like it was competing with the lines for Santa. Natasha was able to discourage photos, so he knelt down and got ready to sign autographs.

Most of the kids didn't want a signature. They wanted a hug. Steve was pelted by little kid arms, and hair, and snot, and questions. "The shield's in a safe place," he said. "There's no bad guys around," he lied, "Santa's elves are making sure of that." 

"You're stinky," one tot declared. 

"Black Widow thought it would be funny to spray me with perfume," said Steve. 

'Right under the bus,' Natasha mouthed. 

But some of the kids, mostly girls, were shyly approaching Nat, which had been Steve's goal in the first place. 

"Perfume's for girls!" another declared. 

Steve crouched lower to meet them at their level. "Perfume's for whoever wants to wear it," he said. "Just don't lay it on too thick. When I was a little guy, I used to sneeze and sneeze when someone was—" 

"Stinky!"

"Stinky," Steve agreed gravely.

The older kids were cool with fist bumps, not hugs, and Steve challenged them to punch as hard as they could. Some of them cracked a smile when he shook out his hand. 

One of them tried to swipe Steve's phone. 

Steve saw Natasha twitch in the corner of his eye. His hand was already snaking out to catch the kid's wrist. He smiled. "I got something just for you, kiddo." 

The kid's eyes were wide as saucers. Steve was gentle, but it was apparent he was holding back from breaking a bone, on top of not leaving a bruise. He kept his hands moving as he scanned the crowd; the would-be thief was alone. Not to say there wasn't anyone waiting for him, someone who might not even be inside the building. Without his smile slipping, Steve palmed the phone and switched it with a stack of paper slips. "Go on," he said. "Happy holidays. Stay safe." 

The kid took off with a handful of free meal vouchers at local sandwich shops. Steve had handwritten the number of a shelter on the back of each one. It was all he could do for the moment. Later he could sketch a portrait and pass it on to the Wilsons' church connections, because he sure wasn't handing the kid's information to Hydra. 

"Shy," Steve said to the remaining crowd, and kept going. He could feel Nat's gaze on him. 

They thought they were finishing up when a children's choir marched right through. 

The harried chaperone was walking backwards, and so it was the younger members in front who spotted them first. The shudder of bouncing sopranos rippled down the line, which was in danger of eddying at the sight of Steve and Natasha. The adults were more flustered than the kids — the notice board next to the stage caught Steve's eye, proclaiming it five minutes to showtime. Thinking quick, he pulled Natasha down behind their pillar, and offered his palm for high-fives. The line made a wobbly detour but stayed on-course for the stage. 

On the opposite side, Nat crouched with her hand up. Her face was unreadable as each child in identical robes reached to touch her hand with small fingers. Steve held back a grin as the kids' pre-performance jitters changed to a surprised confidence. 

Near the end of the line, they were met with the astonishment from the kids who hadn't seen them ahead. "Cap!" came one stifled shriek. 

Steve put his finger to his lips. Everyone close by echoed a loud "Shhh!" 

He winked at them, and stood up as the choir director rounded out the group. 

"Thank you, Captain," she whispered. 

"Like we planned it," said Steve. "Good luck."

They took off against the flow of the gathering audience before anyone could think to take a picture. 

Nat was quiet. 

"What's going on?" Steve murmured to her. 

"Nostalgia," she answered. Her eyes held a touch of frost. 

Steve let that one sink in. 

"May I put my arm around you?" 

A flick of eyelashes. She shrugged. 

Gingerly Steve placed his arm on her shoulders. 

"What's this about?" Nat murmured. 

"Sam's always telling me there's no crime in being more tactile. Taking his advice, for once." 

At their backs, the caroling echoed down the hall and reached them. Tucked next to him, Steve could detect the subtle motions of Natasha scanning the environs. He was quietly doing the same. Shoppers rushing by would only see a couple walking along the promenade. 

"When we were learning American pop culture," Natasha said suddenly, "I used to think 'one horse open slay' was a special technique." 

Steve couldn't help it. He threw his head back and laughed. Then he considered the rest of the lyrics, and had to muffle himself with his shirt front. He felt loose. It came to him that he hadn't laughed in ages. No one paid them any mind; it was just a boyfriend laughing at something his girl said. 

Nat acted like she was too prim to giggle. "I finally clued in when no amount of logic could untangle 'slay bells.'"

Steve rubbed her shoulder. "Me and Bucky were poor city kids. We'd never seen sleighs," he consoled. "Outside of department store window displays. Not like these," he said, nodding at the half-mannequins in sweaters under glitter-spangled jumbo snowflakes. "Real _productions_. You might enjoy them, they still put 'em up in New York." 

Melancholy weighed him back down again, like the chill reaching into all their bones from far away and long ago. Tentatively he held Natasha closer; she allowed it. He might never stroll around like this with Bucky. Burst out laughing at some zinger, tug him close, hold his hand in public at a time and place where it wasn't frowned upon. Go line up with the rest of the holiday crush to view the windows at Macy's. When he was younger, he'd felt equal parts resentment and fondness whenever Bucky would sling his arm around his shoulders, and hustle him through the city crowds. He never thought he'd miss that. 

After a few store-lengths, Natasha sighed heavily. "You do know what he does, don't you?" 

"Did. And I figured it out. That arm isn't for show. If they kept freezing him..." That was a lot of holidays missed. Or destroyed, ever after. 

"You're compromised, Steve." She jammed her shoulder into his armpit. "You know what that means." 

"He warned me," said Steve lowly. "That's why no contact. I've had time to think about it. If he needs to be stopped... I'm the one who can." 

Unexpectedly, Natasha knocked her brow on his shoulder, aiming for comforting. "Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your Christmas." 

Steve swallowed a little. "Nat... I get it. You have no reason to trust me. But if you're ever in a sticky situation, I'll come for you. I'll get you out." 

He felt her tickle his ribs. "You know what, Steve? I do trust you." 

A smile climbed into his skull and split his face. "Tell you what: skip buying a gift. That's all I want for Christmas." 

"Good, because you don't have any shelf-space left for books." 

"You were going to get me a book? Which book? Nat? Natasha. Come on. Did you hack my wishlist? Fiction or nonfiction?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers does get the number of that reindeer. Or: encounters between floors.

### To Ninety-Two

Steve had grown to loathe the Triskelion. He'd been impressed by the sweeping architecture, at first. Then his relentless strategic mind had mapped out the building's vulnerabilities. Then he'd started to ponder what the architecture was actually for, and that answer was always the same: it was aimed at the people in it.

SHIELD liked to aim things at people.

Then he'd found out SHIELD was crawling with Hydra. So there was that.

Only the reality that Bucky was out there prevented Steve from smashing it all to bits. He couldn't blow his cover. Not after everything Bucky had gone through, and Steve had only learned a fraction of that story. So in the meantime it was playing the good soldier boy. Watching and waiting. Running recon when he could. Since that was mostly trying to eke out information from Nick Fury, he wasn't making much headway.

Steve had the nagging suspicion that Nick could tell he would rather be sticking his hands down the back of the Winter Soldier's pants than sitting through another SHIELD meeting. He was lucky to retain his security clearance. It was the eye. Steve blamed Tony Stark for infecting him with convincing malarkey about the eye. When it was safe to text him, he'd have to compare notes.

"He knows when you're awake," muttered Steve.

"What's that?" asked Sharon Carter, whom Steve had been trailing. He wasn't sure she knew of her security-blanket status — courtesy of Natasha's list of cleared personnel — but since she was secretly assigned to his protection detail, it would all work out in the end.

"Nothing," said Steve with a smile.

"State destination," prodded the elevator.

"Uh, Archives."

The elevator doors slid shut.

Steve looked out at the architecture. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sharon position herself so as to prevent one national icon from doing something stupid, like jumping out of the elevator, or using the shield to carve "Steve ♥ Bucky" where the floor numbers should have been.

He was wondering how a capable agent like Sharon felt about pulling a shit detail like this when something went _splat_.

Instinctively Steve spun to put the shield between them and the object. In one move, Sharon stopped the elevator and drew her service weapon.

Steve was drawing the shield, chancing a look at the unknown object, when the wind peeled it off the exterior glass. He watched it flap away.

"What the fuck was that?" Sharon said. Her gun-hand was steady, though Steve could hear her heart hammering.

"It was a tiny reindeer."

Sharon hit a lot harder than Steve expected. Of course, Peggy had probably clued her in. "That's not funny!"

"It was!" said Steve. He hooked the shield on his back and peered down. "It was a sticker. Like you get at a five-and-ten. Dollar store. I got a good look at it. See, there it is."

They observed its swirling descent.

"How did it even get up here?"

"Birds flying south for the winter?"

"Rogers, be serious."

"It could be! Crows aren't extinct. Or maybe it was stuck to some prey, and a larger bird got it. They do void themselves in mid-flight."

Sharon could've made a comment about hanging out with Sam too much, except Sam's existence had gone unacknowledged, officially, and unofficially kept off-the-books. Which was indicative about a lot of SHIELD. "You really did do nothing but read as a kid."

Steve tamped back a memory of Bucky showing up with library books because the library was too dusty for Steve's lungs. Before entering, Bucky'd bang them on the doorknob like he could knock the mold out of them. "Honestly, if it was natural history? I only read those for the pictures."

"Could be explosive," said Sharon of the tiny reindeer now parked on the glass roof below.

That had occurred to Steve. "It hit hard enough to stick. If there was going to be an exothermic reaction, a concussive force like that would've set it off." He glanced at Sharon's bemused expression. "We blew up a lot of stuff in the war."

"It could still be a novel smart material. Or a Pym. I'll have to call it in," said Sharon. "Someone has to scrape it off the roof, even if it's not a national security threat."

"Put STRIKE on it," said Steve, rocking on his heels. "They could use a drill."

Now Sharon did break out a grin. "Aye, aye, Captain." With that, she press-ganged a bunch of Hydra thugs to shovel bird shit for the rest of the day. Talk about improving the architecture.

*

Steve whistled as he swept his bike for bugs. All the easier to cover the subsonic sonar clicks that Sam had taught him to use in conjunction with his enhanced hearing. He was harboring a tiny bit of worry that traces of genetic material had survived for recovery. But Steve reasoned that even if they roused the lab techs out of their holiday stupor for a rush job on a cartoon sticker, there'd be nothing to match it to.

Even Bucky's personal effects in the Smithsonian had gone through a sweep of artificial light to kill off all the biologicals. They didn't even smell like him anymore.

Which was fine by Steve. He knew what Bucky smelled like. In the clothes he was wearing.

It was a jaunty tune Steve was whistling.

He waved at an agent getting into their sensible commuter car.

They didn't wave back. Probably Hydra.

Steve relaxed all the more as the Triskelion shrank in his rearview mirrors. He was determined to make this a pleasant drive. And it was, for the most part. The DC area was festooned with holiday decorations. Deliberately garish scarves and bright neckties punctuated staid suits and uniforms. Some brave souls flashed vision-searing ugly sweaters. Steve could almost enjoy it, if not for the Hydra of it all. For every jolly wreath and string of lights, there were probably five or six hidden cameras.

The peculiar charm of Washington was that it was a planned city. It was a grid dropped like a tablecloth on top of a swampy valley. Steve had no need of the grid now, however. The type of navigation the Howling Commandos had specialized in was of bombed-out cities with no landmarks at all. Steve could still recall Bucky leaning on a chimney, all that was left after a night of shelling. 'At least Santa can still find them,' he'd said. Steve had pointed out that they hadn't had much of a chimney back in Brooklyn. Bucky had laughed and said that sure explained it all, didn't it.

That internalized mapping served Steve well whenever he deployed to disaster zones recovering from earthquakes or storms. It served him well now. Because the Commandos hadn't only been trying to orient themselves. They had also been trying to conceal their movements in territories crawling with Nazis.

 _Must be a Tuesday,_ Steve thought.

The serum allowed him to do a lot better at mathematics than normal. However, Bucky had been the math whiz in school, and that was before Zola's experiments had sharpened his wits. Steve was careful to mentally check his calculations. He hoped they were both using the same cipher; at least he was absolutely certain of the number of hooves on each foot of the reindeer sticker shot at the elevator shaft, forty floors up, into a headwind, from far beyond the Triskelion's sights.

Three miles out, Steve reluctantly ditched the bike. It was near enough to one of Natasha's safehouses to be convincing. Then he stuffed the shield in a gym bag, pulled up his hoodie, and went for a run.

The coordinates led Steve to a quaint little duplex squeezed into a residential street. He checked the other unit, out of habit. He heard nothing coming from the address itself. Bucky had always been better at hide-and-seek.

Steve sidled into the alley. Did a check of the dumpsters. Then a hop up the fire escape. He was making too much noise, but the shield was no quiet companion.

A hand shot out of the suddenly open window. Steve looked up to see Bucky's amused expression before he was hauled inside, shield and all.

"Hi, sweet pea," said Bucky as he shut the window.

Steve had barely scrambled to his feet before he reached for Bucky and found his lips. Bucky was laughing at him. He was steering them into the interior of the house, and Steve didn't care if there was a firing squad lying in wait. Compromised, right.

At last he came up for air. "I really like kissing you," Steve said. Like a dope.

Bucky smiled at him lazily. His lips seemed bee-stung. "I noticed."

"I..." Steve tried to gather himself. He was squeezing Bucky's ass, practically papering them together, and he couldn't seem to get himself to stop. "I'm glad you're all right. You got back in one piece."

"Your friends are terrifying," said Bucky. "But they're not bad at extraction. The little guy nearly froze his balls off, though. We should get him a real swim costume for Christmas."

Steve laughed with relief, and rewarded him with a kiss. Poor Bucky had probably worked himself up more than he'd let on; he couldn't have many good memories of a little guy shivering through hypothermia. "That's going on the list. I like the place. Is it...?"

"It's one of those time-share things. Online. Owner's a civilian, they have no idea what I look like." He looked around, too, as though surveying it as a domicile for the first time. "It is kinda cozy, huh?"

They were in a living room with a plush couch and a decently sized television screen. It looked disturbingly like Steve's apartment, as though they'd shopped from the same catalog. Given that SHIELD lackeys had done the decorating, that was probably the case. There was a fireplace that was probably about as old as they were, though at first glance he still couldn't tell the real ones from the ones that wouldn't take wooden logs. The rug looked like the business-end of a dame's powder puff; Steve wondered how it would feel on bare skin.

"If we're secure," Steve rasped.

Bucky gave him a kiss; that light touch on the lips sent shivers up Steve's back. "We're clear. Baby monitors are handy."

"Then could we... on the couch?" said Steve hopefully. "Nothing fancy, I gotta catch my breath." He dropped the shield on the fluffy rug.

Accordingly, they spilled onto the couch in a tangle of arms and legs. "You did just go for a jog," murmured Bucky, nipping at Steve's jawline.

"Wasn't the run," murmured Steve. "You... takin' my breath away."

"That's cornier than Nebraska," said Bucky. "I like it. Try all your horrible lines on me, sugar."

"They're not that horrible."

"I missed the last few decades, even I know they're bad."

They kissed. A lot. Steve couldn't stop groping Bucky's ass, and Bucky didn't even laugh at him for the fixation. Bucky liked to test out his hands on Steve, first the flesh one and then the metal one. Steve didn't know what he looked like, either way, only that Bucky seemed to enjoy comparing his reactions.

"What's the plan?" Steve said into the hollow of Bucky's throat. He tried licking it. Bucky rumbled. He licked it again.

"I've got the can, but we're waiting on a can opener." Bucky mussed Steve's hair, then tried to get the spikes spiky again. "'Fraid we can't round the bases just yet."

"Aw," Steve pouted. A tad. "Hang on." He looked up. "Santa can't unwrap it?"

"That's what his little red elf said." Bucky... snuggled up, and Steve just about burst with happiness. "They'll either open it or they won't. What's it matter. We'll get a fire going, pop some popcorn... Did we make drop cookies? I found this mix in a bag."

"It was shortbread," Steve said breathlessly. "But that's okay, those are... This is the tops, Buck," he blurted out. "It's the best Christmas gift, being home. With you."

Bucky started rubbing the center of his back, and Steve about broke down right there. 

"Don't go getting sappy on me."

Steve sniffled. He struggled to get a noise out for a second. His heart felt like it would thump right out of his ribs.

"I missed you so bad, buddy," he said at last.

Bucky stiffened. "Did you say 'buddy'?"

"Oh," said Steve, blinking. He flushed. "Didn't mean it like that. If we'd been together back home, we would've had to hide."

Bucky was less hurt than baffled. "We're... already in hiding. Are we pouring on an extra layer of hiding?"

Steve muffled a hysterical laugh. "My mistake. The 1940's feel like yesterday, sometimes."

Fortunately Bucky decided the best thing for it was more hugging. Although Steve sensed that he wasn't quite sure why the technique was so effective. What a way to be immobilized. For himself Steve felt like he was cracking up and getting it all together at the same time.

Sam really had a point about more tactile contact.

"In case you're wondering," Bucky murmured after a while, "You are growing on me. How's about we toggle our relationship status to 'secret boyfriends'?"

Steve snorted. "Is that what they call 'going steady'?" He lay back, abruptly exhausted, and contentedly received Bucky following him into a loose embrace. They actually fit pretty well. Metal arm and all. "Yeah, sure, let's swipe right. Not the best idea in the world, but most of our ideas have been on the stupid side."

"You tell me, _buddy_ ," said Bucky; Steve was sure he meant 'comrade'. "You know better'n I do."

Because it had worked before, Steve dared to run his fingers through Bucky's hair. He'd put some product in it that made it sleek and smooth to the touch. Though it didn't feel or smell the same, the picky grooming was so Bucky Barnes that it ached.

"How much do you remember?" Steve whispered.

"A little more every day," Bucky confessed. "I'm probably him, if that's what you're worried about."

No, thought Steve fiercely. He sat up, his palm warm on Bucky's cheekbone. "All I want is to know that you're okay," he insisted. "You know what I mean," he added, at Bucky's slight eye-roll. "It's not as though I've got any idea who I am anymore."

Bucky laughed. "Great. We can roast some chestnuts and have an identity crisis together."

"Best Christmas ever," said Steve. And he meant it with all his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wassailing for secret agent types.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was getting long. Then I remembered that in the actual movie they had time to get from rural Virginia to Sam's house, do a load of laundry, shower, straighten Natasha's hair, and have breakfast if they ate that sort of thing before they ever sat down to strategize.

### Scary Ghost Stories

They did get a fire going in the hearth after Bucky stuck a 'Santa indicator' gadget on the flue damper. Some charcoal had rolled under the grate; Bucky demonstrated his old Winter Soldier eye-black technique, which Steve did wipe off with the hem of his shirt, to be replaced by a quick smudge of USO-quality eye lining. This time when they washed up, they didn't do anything too indecent at the sink.

Bucky had picked up some kind of care package filled with random holiday props. They went to town on it while they figured out the cookie mix, and munched on burnt popcorn. No matter what the arm's provenance, they were both impressed that it could hold a rendition of a tinsel tree — with the red star on top — without affecting performance. They discovered that they did know what to do with the dreidel, and Steve recounted stories about the Jewish family who'd filled out the floor above them.

They alternated between kissing and trying to jam a tiny felt hat on each other's head, jostling like shoulders could be once again narrow. Spooning raw mix onto the cookie sheets took a considerable amount of time.

The fluffy rug was dragged into the kitchen, and they sat on it with their noses nearly pressed to the oven door. Side by side, waiting for the cookies to bake, they covered more sobering topics, like how to disable a rampaging Winter Soldier, or how to hide a Captain America who couldn't scar and whose features had been illustrated into the world's consciousness for the better part of seven decades. Bucky seemed relieved, and then sad, to learn that they'd never discussed coming home from the war. There'd been stretches of teasing out scenarios from the rest of their unit, but not from each other.

Cutting out paper stencils for Yalda fruit decorations, they sorted out how to slip coded missives into love notes. Steve had a trick turning bare knuckles into a rubric. He felt unexpectedly fortunate that they both had a full set, sort of — and then was shot with guilt at feeling glad. It turned out Bucky's emotions were reversed; the metal joints in question led with a cookie dough attack to persuade Steve to his side.

One thing they had in common for certain was a dislike of the cold. By the second batch of cookies, Bucky got up to mess with the fireplace, on account of having a whole arm that couldn't get singed. So it was Steve who answered the knock on the door clad in a Santa hat, a tangle of popcorn and tinsel garlands, and a shirt streaked in sugar and flour, with the shield covered in snowy synthetic fur.

Phil Coulson stood there with his mouth hanging open.

"Gee, look who it is," said Steve Rogers. "The Ghost of Christmas Past." He crossed his arms behind his shield, supremely unimpressed. "Come on in."

Coulson's companion pushed him inside before he could make any embarrassingly strangled sounds.

One eye on them, Steve flipped the shield to use it as a parabolic dish, found the landing empty of special forces, and shut the door. 

"Sugar plum!" he called, obnoxiously saccharine, "Old friends're here. They got that can opener you wanted."

Coulson sort of... gibbered. "Ca— I can—"

"Steve, please. Ma'am?"

"May." They exchanged cordial handshakes. "Melinda May."

"Weapons on the counter," said Steve with a practical air.

"Of course," she said. She nudged Coulson, who was busy gawking.

Steve squinted. "Have we met? Were you... ground support, in Manhattan?"

"I was," said Melinda May.

Steve decided he could set down the shield, and its fluffy cover, on a nearby stool. "Thank you for that, by the way," he said politely. "That was a fine job. Particularly given the circumstances."

"Right back at you," said May, "Steve."

"If it's hot in here," said Bucky, strolling in. "It's not you, babycakes. I put a log on the fire." Without turning, Steve counted Bucky's weapons by watching May count them up.

Plus the toasty metal arm wrapping around him from behind.

"That was awful nice of you, peaches," Steve crooned.

"I can be nice," said Bucky. Meaningfully.

Phil Coulson finally formed an audible word out of the dozens he had been gargling in shock. "You're Bucky Barnes."

"Oh, tell the whole world, why doncha," Bucky said, exasperated.

Phil was saved by the oven timer going off. In a picture of efficiency, Bucky donned an apron and retrieved the cookie sheet, Steve set out a plate and napkins, and May jabbed Phil in the side. There was an ooof.

Sadly for Coulson, he wasn't saved for long. "Sergeant, you're our contact?"

So Sitwell hadn't briefed them. Bucky set out the cooling racks, eyeballing Coulson. "Yeah. And I'm not... the Sergeant."

"But you are! This is wonderful news! You're... you survived."

"Uh huh. Glad tidings."

Steve said, "He's dead, you know. Says so at Arlington. One would think you'd know something about that. Mulled cider?" he offered.

"If you don't mind. You seemed less surprised than us," observed May.

"A good guess," allowed Steve. "Back on the helicarrier I didn't see him palling around with too many other agents. _And I attended the memorial service._ " At Coulson's slight flinch, Steve let him have it. "Does Natasha know? Did you even tell Clint? Not to mention..." He'd had to refrain from connecting to the internet to check for Tony's news alerts. "Stark's not getting a shot, because Pepper Potts is going to kill you all over again."

"I'm sure he's got a good excuse for not telling his friends he's not really dead," said Bucky with grave generosity.

With that, he extracted a steaming chestnut and crushed it over the oven-soft cookies. The shell fragments magically remained in his metal palm.

Well, if the lack of oven mitts hadn't clued them in before, they knew who Bucky was, now.

Coulson looked close to passing out.

Steve's mouth was watering.

"Don't ice them till they're cooled," advised May.

"Icing seems like gilding the lily," said Steve.

Coulson was looking at May like he was waiting on a signal.

Instead, May rooted out a little wire strainer. "Everything looks fancier with powdered sugar."

"Hear, hear. Rationing's over with. Make it snow, ma'am," said Bucky. May snorted.

"Are we addressing the obvious collusion in the room?" said Coulson.

"Yeah, everybody's back from the dead and we're sprinkling sugar on our cookies."

"I feel like you're a lot snarkier than I remember," Coulson said to Steve.

"Considering almost everyone I know died for nothing, I think I'm entitled to a little snark. If you'd opened the door and found the Winter Soldier, would you have shot first and asked questions later?"

"Possibly," said May.

"Given that everyone's lost the element of surprise, I'd say that's one plot foiled."

"The evening is young," said Bucky agreeably.

"So we're just going to sit here and eat cookies?" Coulson despaired.

Said Bucky, "I got what I got, you got what you got. And we're not putting 'em together until we trust that the other party's not evil."

"Hence cookies," Steve finished.

"Smart and pretty," Bucky murmured. He dotted Steve's nose with sugar.

"I hope I marked up my seventh grade history book with erasable pen," said Coulson faintly.

"They make erasable ink? What's the point of that?" said Bucky. "Get a pencil."

"Your history book's not wrong," said Steve. "Though we did not make a habit of breaking into song."

"That implies that there was singing in the first place," said Bucky, even more dubiously.

"Only that one time: in the wine cellar outside Avignon."

"You'll have to tell me about it."

"Ooh," said May without enthusiasm. "Brain shit. I hate brain shit." She took a sip of cider, her gaze slipping to the side, at Coulson.

Steve winced.

"Ah, brain shit," said Coulson in that familiar deadpan. "Did you happen to try—?"

"Recalibration?" Bucky bit into a cookie. "Generations of Black Widows have tried knocking on the old noggin. No such luck. Brain shit later," he said firmly, licking a crumb off his bottom lip. "Hydra shit now."

At that, May froze. Coulson blinked rapidly.

Steve stopped chewing. "You didn't know it was Hydra?"

A shadow passed over Bucky — a glimpse of the Winter Soldier. "It's bad enough you're cockblocking our holiday. You haven't vetted your sources? You can't be a two-man team; what about your support personnel?"

For a second Steve wasn't sure if Coulson was more sickened by the possibility of a traitorous team or Bucky Barnes uttering the word 'cockblocking.' No — that wasn't at all fair to Coulson. This Hydra shit was turning Steve into a real Scrooge.

"I have an idea," said May. "How about we relocate to the living room, with the cookies, where you two can cuddle on the couch, and I can watch the chestnuts pop and pretend they're the skulls of my enemies."

"We're being surprisingly chill about this," said Coulson.

"Some of us lived through Vichy France," Steve said.

"I'm trying new coping mechanisms," said May. "Just in time for the holidays. By the way, I'm reporting directly to Fury about your brain shit."

Coulson paled further. "What brain shit?"

Steve gave Phil a cookie.

*

Nutshells were arranged on the low table in front of the fire. Unpopped kernels on the ottoman represented Coulson's team.

A tiny gift ornament stood in for the data from the Lemurian Star.

"Who wraps a present that Santa can't open?"

"Evil elves."

"That was last month."

"It's that old prank with the dollar bill," said Steve unhappily. "Pick it up, and someone's going to jerk the string."

"Our tech is foolproof—"

"Cobbled up in your workshop of elves," said Bucky. He tapped the ottoman with his toe.

May and Coulson looked ill.

"Wasn't sure of your pal, either. Direct ties to the upper levels of... the naughty list. Congress. Diplomatic corps. State department. None of which he mentioned to you. _I_ took a chance. Are _you_ sure this double agent of yours ain't jerking you around?"

"Seeing as my closest friends haven't been exactly forthcoming," said Phil, "I'm not sure what to think."

Tightlipped, Melinda took a sip of cider, eyes downcast.

"What were you told?" Steve pressed. "When you were sent here."

"You first," said May.

Bucky snorted. "I ain't that brain damaged."

"Neither am I," said Coulson. "With all due respect, we don't know that it's—" Bucky must have been glaring, because Coulson revised in mid-stream. "Who you say it is."

Steve found his hand covering the star on Bucky's arm. "Because the evidence is cleaned out. By our side," he said.

"And... you're not compromised?" said Coulson, in that mild sucker-punch voice of his.

Steve had taken plenty of punches. "I haven't left enough of a mark to be compromised."

"You're gonna have to try harder than that," murmured Bucky.

May and Coulson shared identical expressions.

"We're not even opening this gift," Steve forged on. "Right?"

"Reading the gift tag," confirmed May. "Which, as stated, could set off a trap. One of many our 'pal' might have set you up for."

"Maybe he didn't trust me," Bucky shrugged. "Just because it's a proving test doesn't mean the intel's bad."

Coulson said, "What's so special about this information?"

"Tracing the brains of the outfit," said Bucky. He placed a cheap snowglobe to the side. "I'll admit finding him probably won't help you with your internal problems. The naughty list is all... boxed up."

"Compartmentalized," offered Steve.

"That. Until I ran into you," Bucky said to Steve, "I didn't know there was an active op involved. Thought it was another pet project of his."

Steve thought back to the launch platform on the ship. Its rocket — which he still thought of as a fancy bomb. And STRIKE. And their pal Sitwell. "If your mutual pal was rotten, that ought to have been a recapture." He rubbed the heel of his hand along the tense line of Bucky's shoulder. "Instead, we _all_ got on the same sleigh-ride. But if he's clean, and it's an active op—"

"He's trying to tell us it's an active op, and he can't be caught with you otherwise," finished Coulson.

May set down her cup. "We were told someone had a long range DNA-locking technology. That would be the perfect compliment to seek out enhanced persons. Or, in the hands of the bad guys, locate them before we could. That data was supposedly in the hands of a someone enhanced who required a face-to-face meeting."

"The other reason why it was your team assigned," Steve concluded.

"That's all."

Coulson was making a face, but didn't gainsay her reply.

"Got the enhanced part right," said Bucky.

Steve said, "Since we're obviously not the trap, that means your source is clean. And they think your team's dirty." Unassuming, short on particulars — nothing to tip off a mole on the inside.

Bucky thumbed the side of Steve's chin with approval. Despite it all, Steve broke into a grin.

Coulson grasped at one more straw. "What if this—" he waved at the whole of the sparkly seasonal cheer, "—is a diversionary tactic?"

"Expensive delay," Bucky said. "Bullets are cheap."

"Who do we send our coal to, then?" May picked up a whole walnut, and placed it at the top of their diagram. "Who's our Krampus among us?" she asked.

"Former Secretary of Defense," said Bucky. He reached forward and crushed the walnut, shell and all, with his middle finger.

Steve aggressively nuzzled his cheek.

It didn't take long.

"Oh, oh my God," said Coulson. "He and Fury..."

"He handled ... my missions. Personally."

"Fuck," said May.

"He has Alpha Level clearance," moaned Coulson.

Steve felt very strange being the calmest person in the room. It had to be the eggnog. And Bucky, safe in his arms. "That could well be why the box wasn't cracked. Experience tells me it's a futile exercise trying to guess at the contents of Saint Nick's list. Safe to say he's treating this seriously since he deployed me and Natasha. We should focus on what we know of the naughty list."

"Just us. Here." said May.

"If we have to." A plan was starting to unfurl in Steve's mind. However... "We do have to open this box before midnight. Stay one step ahead of them before they destroy liberty, human rights, and Christmas."

"You think they'd destroy Christmas?" May inquired. She was quite serious.

"I wouldn't put it past them," Steve sighed.

"They did turn me into their pet assassin," said Bucky. "Don't underestimate their vile sense of humor. Then when you don't act like it's the best comic gag of all time, they lose their shit like it's the end of the world."

Steve smooshed his nose on the hinge of Bucky's shoulder.

"In that case, I don't like that you're free to move around," said May.

"Not that we aren't overjoyed at your survival," added Coulson.

"You mean, why're they letting me dangle?"

"If they haven't attempted recapture, or tried to make contact with you..." May's frown deepened.

One metal finger went up, next to Steve's face. "They could already be controlling me." Steve snapped a candy cane with extreme displeasure. Another shiny digit rose. "They're set to lure me in for a big production. Or," Bucky sighed. "I'll be the patsy."

Steve caught Bucky's fingers in a loose grip. "That last one implies that someone could do your missions."

"I was trying to keep it from being you."

Steve was yanking at Bucky's fingers, gently, and Bucky was letting him. Steve was thoughtful. He was thoughtfully trying not to kiss Bucky's fingers. Or lick them. They'd taste of sugar. "You know, the most unexpected thing about this century, once I got my bearings, was that with all the active conflicts, there wasn't more of me. Cookie cutter, factory standard. All I heard about was Banner, and he'd failed miserably."

"He seems to be handling it pretty well," Bucky allowed.

"It's not the same as controllable. Relatively," Steve added hastily.

"Uncontrollable could work, though," said Coulson. "For a bad-guy set-up."

"A grenade, not a gun," said May pensively.

Steve found a snowman eraser, contemplated all-around appropriateness, and placed it at the bottom of the field.

"I might... have a lead on that," Bucky said. Casually, as though from thin air, he drew a gigantic, actual gun which looked built to halt an armored truck. "But I hear a clattering on the roof, and since they're not coming down the chimney—"

Everyone sprang into action. Steve toed the shield airborne and in arm. May grabbed a fireplace poker. Coulson tucked and rolled towards their weapons cache in the kitchen.

There was a tap-tap-tapping on the window in the adjoining sitting room. Bucky smoothly swiveled to aim at it, through the wall. Steve knelt in front of the couch, shield up to cover himself, Bucky, and May.

Natasha's red hair appeared. Upside down.

Steve dropped the shield in favor of a mug of hot cocoa, and shuffled forward. Scooting across the narrow space, he cracked the window to the width of Nat's shoulders. "Ghost of Christmas Present, check."

"For me?" Nat said sweetly as she swung inside.

"No, it's Bucky's — it's spiked with cayenne, and it's molten hot. What's in the backpack?"

"Gifts!" She did seem impressed that Steve was ready to use a beverage as a weapon.

Bucky was not so pleased by his choice of defenses. With a mechanical whine, he launched the shield reprovingly enough to pin Steve to the brickwork on the catch. Steve did regret wearing socks on the polished hardwood.

"Were you followed?" Bucky growled at their guest.

"Grinch," sniffed Natasha. "Of course not. Hi, Melinda."

"Hi. We're cockblocking them," explained May.

"What are you really..." Natasha stopped. Speechless.

Coulson had been frog-crawling around the corner from the kitchen. From the floor, he essayed a wave with his handgun.

"I feel like a perimeter check," May said, almost cheerily.

"Good call," said Bucky. "There's phony holly and ivy in the bag. C'mon Stevie, time to deck the halls."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking everyone we know twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for unasked-for induced flashback. Characters ruffled but have no cause for alarm.  
> The whipped cream thing is pre-WWII; apparently it was a formative moment.  
> Memory is tricky — there should be more parts to this series.

### Better Watch Out

Five minutes later.

"So you're saying you stick these to a wall," said Bucky.

"Yes," said May.

"And then when you're through with 'em, you tug this tab down, and they just come off?"

"Yep. No marks. I'm sure our lab babies would be able scare up trace residue, but nothing visible to the naked eye."

"Go figure," said Bucky reverently. "I thought it was fancy tech. Turns out they sell it in the corner drugstore."

"I know I brought the stockings," said Natasha, "But hanging them up on the mantel seems like a fire hazard."

"Lots of emergency personnel are sleepers," said Bucky conversationally. "Easier for infiltration."

"Ambulances," Melinda agreed.

"I like fire trucks," said Natasha. "People focus on firefighters' muscles, and the face-shield trick tends to work."

Out of her backpack so far, she'd produced only groceries. Most of that had been deposited in the kitchen, which had been tidied to a pristine state. The rug had been returned to the floor in front of the fireplace. Bare feet buried in the pile, Steve had been trying to persuade Bucky to join him on it. The shield had acquired its own blanket. And a mug of hot cocoa. It looked cozy. Steve was trying not to experience envy. He had one hand in the goodie bag trawling for the fake mistletoe without letting on that he wasn't certain what real mistletoe looked like. Botanicals: Captain America's secret nemesis.

The backpack wasn't emptied, though.

And she was taking her time, which ruled out an emergency. Steve hoped.

"What'd you bring to stuff our stockings?" Steve asked.

"It's a coupon for my rendition of Santa, Baby," said Natasha.

"Oh, don't redeem that one," said Coulson, nursing his ice pack. "That's fatal eight out of nine times."

"The ninth reindeer was special."

"Natasha," Steve said. It was a challenge to use the commander tone in a Santa hat. Steve was a pro. "Uninvited guests might be traditional, but I thought your contact with Bucky was not ongoing. Why are you here? And don't say refilling our candy canes. We might be on the clock."

"Relax," said Natasha with an icicle smile. "My gift's nearly done charging."

Before Steve knew what was happening, he got his wish. A lapful of Bucky joined him on the fuzzy rug, nearly knocking him flat.

—Naughty spider! Give me a second to brace!—

—But how else shall I have my fun?—

Something popped, louder than the chestnuts, and Steve grabbed the painted, nonconductive side of the shield and covered himself and Bucky. It was like a half-dozen sweaters without fabric softener zapping each other out of the dryer. All Steve felt was his small hairs standing on end.

Beside them, Coulson was tearing off his suit jacket.

"Forget it," May was saying. She took the jacket, rolled it up, and tossed it in the fireplace.

Bucky's arm jerked, and a moment later was a dead weight.

"Nat!" Steve cried. "Damn it!"

"That's the Disappointed Look," said Bucky. He shook his head hard, once, to stop his teeth from chattering.

"It wasn't that bad," said Natasha with a moue.

"Psychosomatic, they call it. All's fair. Thanks for that." Bucky turned. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"I should be asking you that!" As Steve said it, the arm restarted, the servos whirring with a sinister whine.

"Not as much of a buzz as the jolt I get from those baby blues of yours," Bucky said with a roll of his shoulders. He starfished his fingers, then patted Steve's hot face. "I've wanted to do that for months. Bug flush. Clean as a whistle. Jamming tech?"

"With a little on the side," said Natasha. "You gave me the idea, Steve. A wire going dark sets off alarms, more than gunshots or keyword phrases. According to SHIELD tech, we're all dashing away from here — to a less populated location — complete with street sounds I recorded on the way. That was after making sure _you_ weren't trailed by stray carolers."

"Thank you, Natasha," said Steve dutifully. "Next time, a little warning."

Nat poked Bucky on the star. "He's fine. Durable. You haven't spent enough time with him, if your survival instincts are this lacking."

"Yeah, I haven't rubbed off on him _at all_." Bucky was in no hurry to move from where he'd tumbled onto Steve.

Steve decided he was going to check him from head to toe, and did not give a damn who was watching.

Meanwhile Coulson was standing in the middle of the room like a reindeer had run over him.

Steve licked his lip. "I take it someone else got you dressed, Phil?"

"...Ward," said Phil. "He handed me my jacket, and tie."

"Nice tie?" offered Bucky.

Nat perched on the couch arm, ankles in rotation. "After I encountered Barnes again, I gave myself some homework for winter break. I thought this conspiracy would involve a few STRIKE members, maybe some officers. Once its extent was clear... I had to make sure your meet would be secure."

"I'm sorry," said Melinda suddenly. The supersoldier tangle looked up at her. "We might have revealed too much to our team."

The charge seemed to have loosened Bucky's inner Brooklyn. "What, you mean Steve the walking target? He couldn't be in _more_ danger. You get used to it. Or d'you mean me? Everybody calling my name sure is a change after ghosting through the last century," said Bucky with deceptive languidness. "It's like you've consulted my mirror in the morning. 'Who the hell is this guy! Hey, it's Bucky Barnes!' Nah, don't worry about it, ma'am. Any of them who know the Winter Soldier is a Hydra asset would know it's me. Like I said, Hydra has a terrible sense of humor."

Coulson's frown deepened, transfixed as he was by the remains of his silk tie going up in flames. 

Natasha was doctoring her eggnog from a filigreed flask. "Terrible, hm? I hope that's where you got your lines, because if that was your game back in the day..."

"See, I'm not that bad," said Steve. He kissed Bucky's hair. "And his lines worked on all his dates."

Melinda's gaze zeroed in on the behavior of Bucky's arm. "Barnes. You didn't know if you were clean, before?" she said sharply.

"Oh, I knew. Spent months making sure. But there's sure, and there's _Black Widow_ sure—" (Natasha preened.) "—and we can't take chances with all this brain shit floating around." Bucky flexed, the motion of which throbbed through Steve's chest. "No creepy elves listening in on us."

"I hate those things," murmured Melinda. Then she reached into their ornament field, and came up with the snowman eraser. "Now that our shelves are safe — you said you had a lead. Potential threat?"

Nat's brows knit. —That you?— She was more troubled when Bucky shook his head.

Steve could feel the waves of uncertainty rolling off him. He stroked the join between metal and flesh as Bucky mentally reached back. "Not a lead as such ... I did go looking for my own history, the official and... the unsanctioned. They didn't burn out pattern-recognition—"

"They never would," said Natasha mildly. "They wouldn't teach you to fire a Kalashnikov twice." Steve ground his teeth trying not to telegraph his unease.

"—so even with limited intel, I could still spot a profile. Before the 1990's, it looks like I'm in two places at once."

"You had elves!" Natasha sat up.

"Or mall Santas," said Bucky. "That'd be the period of Soviet control. Soviet Hydra. I have memories of training these greaseballs... and then. It went sideways."

"They became... defective?" said May. She nodded in apology to Steve.

"As far as they're concerned, a lack of compliance is a misfire."

"Like a toy that arrives with batteries not included," said Natasha.

"Or too much power." Bucky turned his head and landed a kiss on Steve's knuckles. "I can't think of another reason why they'd be unfit for the field. So when you brought it up earlier... an _uncontrolled_ detonation..."

"These other Winter Soldiers..." Coulson said. "You don't think they were terminated?"

"Best case, they have no need of me if I don't comply. Why wouldn't they try to retrieve me? Why not brainwash Steve while he was still getting chipped out of the ice?" At that, Coulson winced. Santa wasn't the only one who watched you when you were sleeping.

White-out dreams were too engrossing for Bucky to take notice. He squinted at the reflection on a cabinet front: the frosted windows in the sitting room. "Few months ago, I located an abandoned missile silo in Siberia. I think that's where they conducted operations. Wasn't the North Pole, I can tell you that. It was razed. Whole cliff blown off. Buried under a small mountain of permafrost."

Bucky was letting Steve weave the fingers of their right hands together. "Covering their tracks?" Steve asked.

"The arms of Hydra don't share their toys with each other," said Bucky with dark amusement. "Wasn't sure what to make of it then... but if the doctor was at all involved, now I'd say this was the American arm decommissioning whatever was left of their Russian counterparts. Including salvage."

"Recycling isn't just for trees," said Natasha. 

Said May, "You don't seem too alarmed, Barnes."

"A grenade can be a distraction," said Natasha discerningly. "It also does not require compliance."

A chill ran through Steve.

"Exactly. All the business needs is enough suckers to believe the mall Santa's the real thing." Like an aggressive cat, Bucky settled against Steve, nearly throttling him on the chin. Steve wasn't complaining. "All of that was wiped so hard it's either not actionable intel, or it's too big to deal with, just now. In play, he could've blown us away any number of times. I could've. It's not your worry; only real counter for a Winter Soldier is me or Steve."

Natasha cleared her throat.

Bucky laughed, warm and bitter like spiced coffee. —You could try.—

—I surely would.—

Bucky relaxed further in the face of the wire-thin threat; Steve wasn't sure how to take that, but he wasn't too surprised. He himself had just perked up at the suggestion of a target he could punch. 

"Did you find any of the old guard?" Natasha inquired.

Bucky leaned forward, finding some red hots to drop on their tactical map. "Took retirement packages, or moved their bases west to Europe." He swept them to the side. "They're lucky I chose stealth."

"They have bases...?" said Coulson.

"SHIELD," said Steve. "You're running a secret base, Phil." At his crestfallen look, Steve relented. "Do you two need to go back? If your team figures out there's a mole..."

Natasha gave him the stink-eye, apparently not counting on them leaving their can-opener behind for love and joy and the greater good.

Coulson said, "We wouldn't be able to make it in time. I assume you took some precautions, Melinda?" At her nod, he sighed heavily. "They'll have to figure out how to get along without Mom and Dad sooner or later."

Melinda tented her fingers on her brow, briefly. "Home alone. Wonderful. As long as they don't actually kill each other, the damage they can do is minimal. The jamming tech that Fury had installed works both ways. Unless we have hostiles from Asgard, we have some leeway." 

"Speaking of teamwork," Steve said. "I've been meaning to ask: how's Tony? For the record, I do not like leaving teammates in the lurch."

Coulson looked like he had another stress headache coming on.

"No news is good news," said Natasha.

"Can't call?" Bucky interjected.

It was Melinda who answered. "A jammer won't do much good. Stark is keyworded everywhere. Say his name, and they know it in Kazakhstan."

"Must turn up a lot of false hits for streakers," said Bucky. That surprised a snort from Nat, which in turn tickled Steve. A hot toddy hadn't worked on him in ages, and despite it all, the scene warmed him up like one.

Then Melinda said, "Your voice is flagged too, Steve."

The heat across his chest sparked like a hot coal fragmenting in the middle of the rug. "They can do that? Of course they can do that," groused Steve. "Different century... though we did say it of the 19th century, come to think of it. I shouldn't be so shocked."

"Not the surveillance state you used to know?" said Nat.

"That's what they used to test the system," Phil blabbered guiltily. "When they standardized dial tones for the telephone network. Your recordings were plentiful, and—" He stopped the history lesson once Steve started banging his head on the back of Bucky's neck.

Bucky was unbothered. "I'll explain what streakers are," he said. "If you spill about this holiday revue you supposedly did with the Rockettes."

Now it felt like dumping brandy on a pudding and setting it on fire. Steve looked up to Nat in the hopes that she would save him.

Nat was looking like Christmas had come early. Thankfully she obliged Steve with some eggnog and a real sit-rep. "Anyway, don't worry about the reindeer. Bruce should have intercepted Rhodes by now. Clint will take care of the rest. And so will Tony's thirty-five new suits."

Coulson choked. "Thirty-five?! SHIELD's not doing anything about it? I've been dead too long."

"I only heard about it yesterday. From Pepper. Who is going to kill you a lot," said Natasha.

"Speaking of memories I'd rather not repeat," said Phil. "We don't have enough personnel to cover Stark, and address internal upheaval at the same time."

"You can be Santa next year," said Steve.

"We don't want to tip anyone off by diverting after Tony," stressed Natasha.

"Agreed," said Steve. "Dividing our forces is always a risk. But the pressure point has to be here in DC. Too many suspect agents are roaming the halls for a holiday weekend with no official, active crisis on the board. Why not scramble to the Stark situation? Empty the Triskelion? Hydra wants to be here too."

Natasha was doctoring her eggnog from a filigreed flask. "Mm, Sharon let on that Fury's _good friend_ the secretary has been on him about the pirates. He's in town, as well. Rumor has it, so's the  WSC."

"When we trace this label, we unravel this op, prove what connection the Secretary has to it, and whether it involves the entire organization." Steve touched the rim of his shield, then dropped it on his thigh, in favor of cuddling Bucky.

"I got proof," muttered Bucky. "Call the NORAD hotline, 1-800-LUMPSOF—"

Steve gave him an apologetic squeeze. He oughtn't use his pecs for such ends, but they had to lead with the milk and cookies. "Sitwell was the one who mentioned DNA tracking. If Hydra has that, we're banking on the fact that they didn't do anything before the jammer went up."

"You're hoping it's not in realtime?" said May.

"Like Buck was sayin', the perfect opportunity to get rid of us all at once would've been this gift swap," Steve pointed out.

"My jams are homemade, they count more," commented Natasha. She'd shown up of her own volition, without anyone setting _her_ up.

"Examining the box could still be the trap," said Phil.

"The shield can fit two behind it," said Bucky. "I'll take my chances."

Melinda set a marshmallow on fire, then dropped it into her hot cocoa. "You've convinced me of a SHIELD cover-up. And that there seems to be a timetable. If Hydra does exist—"

"I'm too young and impressionable for that kind of talk," Bucky muttered. Steve hid a smile on his right shoulder. So they believed this was nefarious, just not that it was Hydra. They could work with that.

"—why _wouldn't_ this accelerate their pace?"

"Because your 'tin can' needs a satellite..." said Natasha.

"You mean the one I sabotaged?" said Bucky.

Steve beamed at him.

"The next launch window limits their timetable to days, not hours," said Nat. "Unless they have access to suborbital flight." And a million other possible tactics, but Steve was gut-sure they still had time before the storm hit. If they were wrong, well, it was already too late for this particular Hydra op. All that, and Bucky was awfully relaxed: cracking his way through the rest of the nuts, heavy and languid like Steve was his favorite wing chair. With three others in the room, including Natasha who kept floating out of their sightline.

"We picked up the satellite interference coinciding with the uptick in Stark's activity," said Phil. 

"But not the SHIELD satellites," guessed Steve.

Natasha paused, then rattled off the mission specs for the Lemurian Star mission. Melinda and Phil looked even more blank. Then worried.

"That's the Hydra part. Your mole." 

With a futile air, Coulson raised a candy cane, then dropped his hand. "Okay. Okay. Perhaps we can stick around for the festivities."

"So we're agreed that we're all on the same side?" said Natasha sweetly. "Or have you figured out that the Tin Soldier and I orchestrated this from the beginning?"

That had occurred to Steve in his gloomier late-night musings. For one thing, Fury would have to be involved, and Steve had dug deep enough to know that wasn't the case. "If that's so, I'm telling Sam you sent Bucky to make out with me in his mom's house. Mrs. Wilson can put a crimp on your villainous rise to power."

"Before you explain who Sam is," said Melinda. "His mother's house, Steve?"

Unprompted, Bucky withdrew his hand from the bowl of nuts. He got the cutest guilty look. "That was not planned."

Steve was too busy thinking Bucky was cute to feel terribly guilty. If this was a Hydra plot, it was damned insidious. Like finding out whipped cream came in cans.

Bucky had suddenly and unobtrusively planted his feet, as though something had occurred to him just now. "We sure this'll go down locally?" Without waiting for an answer, he twisted to address... Natasha. "I can make provisions for air support."

As though reading his mind, Natasha went from lax to tense without moving a muscle. —No, you cannot drop in on him. You already pushed it making contact with his family.—

Bucky bristled. —Nobody saw...!—

Out of nowhere Natasha produced a burner phone. —Of course no one but Steve saw you. Still an unacceptable risk. Don't get me wrong, Barnes. I'm convinced you mean well, but your training doesn't lend itself to nondestructive objectives.—

—Once we check that box, Sam is going to need backup, and I'm not talkin' overnight shipping.—

"He's on his way," Natasha announced. She switched off the burner. 

"Hang on, you can't drag Sam into this...!" Steve suddenly found Bucky to be much heavier.

"He's ex-military," Bucky explained to Melinda. He was sitting on Steve like he'd done it before. "How Steve went out jogging and met the one guy in DC with no establishment affiliations, I'll never figure."

"How, do you even, know, about that," Steve grunted. He had been sat on like that before.

"I asked Natasha. It was a straight info swap. I told her about the time you blew your top when we used your shield to cook a goose."

Steve dropped his head on Bucky's shoulder, and stopped struggling. "Second of all, what's Sam's ETA? Traffic's terrific coming from his place. And first of all, you were building a fire behind enemy lines—"

"I'm guessing that's why we put the shield on it," Bucky reasoned serenely. He reached back to pet Steve's hair. "Like a clam bake. Except more patriotic."

"Five minutes," Nat replied. "He was at my safehouse."

May exchanged a look with Coulson. "He was there... why?"

"Sam was your back-up?" Steve wasn't sure if he should be impressed. Or jealous — he ought to have thought of that first.

"He also had more time to raid my pantry," said Natasha. "This is not nearly enough fare for all of us."

"An army marches on its stomach," said Bucky.

Steve groaned. He slumped into their shared warmth. Bucky smelled so good. "Fine. We'll brief him, and he can choose. He might still have time to evacuate. But we will," he swallowed, "honor his choice, even if it leaves us a man short."

"And what if he's followed?" said May.

Natasha cocked her head. "Unlike some people, he knows how to sneak his gifts."

"What's his clearance?" asked Coulson.

"He doesn't have any," said Natasha.

Steve could see them winding up for one more 'bah humbug.' Something in him snapped like a matchstick. Slow and deliberate, with a full head of steam, he cut them off.

"I'll vouch for him. Sam is _family_. He's not going to be _compromised_ by anything beyond a strong sense of duty, and the idea that he should be taking chances on characters like us. You said yourself we need more people. You want to waste time doubting whether we should let him in? And he's supposed to trust us? He's one of the people we're sworn to protect. He's served his country. He's still serving the people in his community. Even if you can't see it, you bet Hydra's gunning for him. We're going to read him in, because we owe him that much. We're not going to leave our family behind."

Before Steve could take another breath, something swished overhead. With the sudden introduction of cool air between them, Bucky spun around, cupped his nape, and pulled him into a deep kiss.

Automatically Steve shifted his shoulder — and just like that, Bucky was pillowed on the rise of his bicep. Never in a host of lifetimes had Steve Rogers dreamt of dipping Bucky Barnes into a kiss. Sure, Bucky was squashed against the couch front, and their legs were twisting up the fur rug, but here they were, nearly a century after their birth dates, kissing like they were in the movies.

His blood was racing so, that when they finally parted, the strategy tree resolved itself with dizzying, scintillating sharpness. All it needed was a topper. Talk about inspiration. It had been easier, before, to take off half-cocked on a wing and a prayer. Now Steve was a guest at someone else's party, where every ally was a stranger, even Bucky, and the stakes were astronomical.

Well... it wouldn't be the first time.

He opened his eyes. Bucky flashed him a smug smile, tip of his tongue flicking across his bottom lip.

Then Steve looked up. Natasha was grinning down, waving a sprig of mistletoe. "Don't look at me," she sang. "Barnes has been wanting to do that since you started speechifying."

Botanicals. This time Steve was happy to surrender. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's gifts and there's _gifts_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst is floating around with the toasty spicyness, like those whole cloves you shouldn't bite down on.  
> The limited POV means a) Phil's doubts may flourish in the absence of shots fired, and b) there's been no spelling out of Natasha's agenda.

### Needed Proof

Melinda May was crunching through a bag of popcorn. "Carry on before you offend Thor." 

Natasha shook the mistletoe like a sea lion trainer. And oh, Steve was sorely tempted to give them something to write home about.

Melinda met Coulson's aggrieved look with a raised eyebrow of 'What, are you stopping them?'

Coulson, of course, shouldered through his fluster to do just that. "Captain, do you mean to lay SHIELD bare to the general public? We can't possibly... we're an intelligence organization. Facing real threats."

"Like Hydra." Bucky grumbled when Steve wound up again instead of kissing him some more. "Is the threat not serious enough? We are hiding like mice in a hipster apartment — yes, I know what it means, Natasha — in the middle of Virginia."

"What's wrong with Virginia?" said Bucky.

Steve's line of thought teetered like a sleigh snagged on a mountain top. "There's nothing wrong with Virginia. I had four USO stops in Virginia."

"Virginia's in America. Does that make you Captain Virginia?"

"Bucky. _Captain America_. I am not Captain Virginia."

"That's not what I heard," said Bucky with a remarkable lack of expression, even as Steve slugged his right side, "There is such a thing as Captain Virginia."

Natasha's indomitable control gave out as she clapped a hand over a high-pitched giggle.

Okay, Steve had to let him have that one. An exchange of accurate personal histories could wait.

—Later,— promised Steve.

From the look on Bucky, the Russian lessons were paying off.

Melinda rattled the popcorn. "If you're through giving us a show, you could get back to plotting your illegal civil disobedience..."

Natasha's Russian accent cut through like a skate blade. "Unless I am mistaken, all civil disobedience is illegal. What do you think, Captain America?"

"SHIELD's charter doesn't leave us much choice. All this compartmentalization — The Gift of the Magi isn't ironic and amusing in real life." Steve rocked Bucky forward in his fervor. "We can't win if we keep playing ... Secret Santas with each other."

"We're going to lose if we're following Hydra's script," said May. 

Said Phil, "It's a new century. A few broken bulbs can be replaced."

"That's what they're counting on. Hydra's too entrenched."

"Is it?" said Coulson. "That entrenched?"

At that, Nat upended her flask into her own eggnog and took a swig, leaving a smear of foam. Then she detached a micro-drive from the flask's false bottom. She flipped it to May.

"Here's what Accounting's been trimming their tree with. What should be perfectly normal wasteful government spending has been swept off the books."

"Off Nick's books?" said Phil.

Melinda drew what looked like a phone, and waved the drive across it. Her eyes seemed to ask why Natasha had held back.

Nat inclined her head as if to say _you know why._ "Presumably," she replied aloud. "I... wasn't able to ask him. Which was probably for the best, knowing what we're up against."

"We could release a file like this," Coulson tried.

"It'll come up short, and you know it," said Steve.

There came a rapping on the door. Bucky dug an elbow on the knob of Steve's shoulder to lever himself up on his toes. He allowed himself a snicker — the knock was shave-and-a-haircut.

"I'll get it," Melinda volunteered. Phil let his jaw drop, then looked quite put-upon.

Sam Wilson blew in as soon as the door opened, laden with full paper bags, and what looked like the bulletproof tactical vest that Nat had gifted him before Thanksgiving. That Sam was wearing it wasn't out of the ordinary, as it blended into the rest of his non-Sunday wardrobe, and had the added cool factor of Steve having no idea where Natasha had lifted it — it could've been one of Tony's prototypes.

"Whew, it's starting to come down out there! You should've told me this was a holiday party, I would've brought the—" Sam took in the tableau. His eyebrows flew all the way up. "—holiday appropriate beverage. This is not a party."

"You can say that again," said Natasha. She licked her lip.

"Steve," called Sam. "You good, man?"

He realized that Bucky kind of had a death-grip on him. "I'm good. Up for Ghost of Christmas Future?"

"Me? Nah, that's mixed up. I'm the one with the grub! The feast. Isn't that the middle ghost? So what's in the air?"

"We're about to unwrap a present."

Sam was shrewd as hell. "Playing Pandora, are we?"

"We're only seeing where it's from," corrected Natasha.

"Uh huh," said Sam with a knowing smirk.

Steve couldn't be too miffed that Sam was looking to Nat to clear the others despite the lack of introductions. Natasha had been instrumental in keeping Sam Wilson a well-kept secret from the rest of SHIELD. Now it might save his life.

"You could leave, Sam, you could pretend you never saw any of us—"

"Oh no. You know which side I'm on, Rogers." Sam caught Melinda sizing him up, and returned the favor.

"Nat, the bug popper?" she called.

Natasha flipped it across the room to Melinda.

"This'll sting a little," she said to Sam.

"Last lady who said that to me, I got into so much trouble..." Sam obligingly held still.

Steve was playing his fingertips along each of Bucky's hidden weapons. Bucky was taut as a violin string; Steve picked up his right wrist and pressed words into the flesh. _"We'll muddle through."_ If Coulson and May went another way, they'd manage. Sam's presence settled Steve immensely. Especially with Bucky drilling, over and over, that he — the Winter Soldier — could not be relied upon. Though Steve had been miserly with the details, Sam was one of the few who understood why.

Coulson had an eye on the entire room even as he scanned the Accounting file.

"Okay, clear." Melinda tossed the bug popper back to Natasha. She and Sam began to put away the latest load of groceries — unloading foil packages, refrigerating meat and vegetables, unwrapping a dark mound of cookie dough that smelled strongly of spices.

Steve glanced at Phil. If they couldn't open the box, they could still give it a shake. "Anything on there about satellites? What do you use satellites for?" Steve mused.

"Mapping."

"Weather." 

"Communications."

"Tracking Santa Claus," said Natasha.

Coulson groaned. "Targeting. Which could be done with a DNA tracking program."

"Now that," said Bucky, nearly knocking Steve over. "That would be enough to send the Winter Soldier into retirement. That's Hydra's fucked up agenda, all over. Is it one of those sky lasers that pick off targets, high speed?"

"It would have to be," Natasha murmured. "To get a lock on Santa Claus, at his traveling velocity."

Sam said, with growing alarm, "I'm guessing the Burgermeister isn't dropping that on top of us right this minute? Right? Guys?"

"Easy, we should have—" began Natasha.

Steve's horror had no chance to congeal.

Out of the blue, Melinda raised her voice. " _What is this?_ "

Phil scrambled to his feet, nearly crashing the 'Bus' and all its hapless popcorn kernels.

At the sudden movement, Bucky torqued like an unwinding hammock. A metal palm—warmed by their body heat—flattened over Steve's scalp, and there was the familiar rush of infuriated and comforted which must have punctuated Steve's youth. It was mitigated by the reality of Steve's hand curled around the hilt of one of Bucky's throwing knives.

Melinda raised a jumbo plastic container filled to the top with a pale substance. "Really?"

Steve got the impression that Phil had never seen Melinda this unnerved.

It was Natasha who answered.

"That was a coincidence," she said. "I felt like comfort food last night."

"And you thought of... Madripoor?"

Steve blew out a breath. He wondered how often Natasha had succumbed to _nostalgia_ , lately.

"Before that night, I didn't think you could do much with a hot plate and a clay pot besides improvise an explosive device. If you're wondering about the serving size, these supersoldiers with gigantic metabolisms keep showing up at my safehouses. And they don't drink vodka. I asked Sam to wrap up whatever he could. Thank you, Sam."

"You're welcome. Dibs on a helping, it smells great cold."

"No, it should be warmed up," said Melinda. She was staring at it like it _was_ a bomb. "My grandmother used to make congee like this. At the risk of her swooping in for a scolding, I think it can be heated up in the microwave."

"From frozen?" Sam tapped the solid block. "Chicken might toughen up."

"Half-power'll do," Bucky said. He seemed to realize he had Steve's head like a fuzzy blond bowling ball, and released him. Gingerly Steve telegraphed the release of Bucky's knife. "Sugarpie, what were you gonna do with that?"

Steve suffered himself to be manhandled like a shipped parcel into Bucky's lap. "I can do a lot more with it than you think," he said, nerves fizzling. He usually didn't notice how much his enhanced heart boomed in his chest. It _was_ like old times — whistling in the dark until the real bombs came whistling down.

Bucky hadn't ever held him this tight, before.

Carefully Sam retrieved the container, vented it, and set the microwave. With a glance at Melinda, he came over and vaulted the couch. A sack of food landed smoothly next to Natasha, who made a pleased noise.

"Hey. Sam Wilson. You Steve's boyfriend?"

Steve was fascinated to feel Bucky freeze up like Sam had dropped out of the sky to demand all his particulars. "Yeah," he got out.

"I have been dying to meet you, man." Sam waggled his eyebrows. He picked up that Bucky wasn't in the mood to shake hands, and didn't encroach. "Steve's been _sighing_ , and flapping those eyelashes, and gazing forlorn into the horizon. If he wants to keep a lid on it, he'll have to do better than that." He grinned at Steve, who couldn't say anything because he was not about to vacate the best seat in the house.

Bucky seemed relieved when Sam turned to scan their fireside strategy map. "This looks familiar: one too many games of Risk with Captain America. Someone break down this tree of evil you've got going here, if you don't mind."

Steve gave Sam a précis of the ornaments while Natasha rearranged all the pieces that had been knocked over. They didn't have a piece for Tony; Nat smirked when Steve picked out a dove in flight.

"So that's how it is," said Sam when they were finished. He shared a wry grimace with Steve.

"Picture tentacles for the boughs," said Bucky. He seemed even more relieved when Sam received that with a wider grin.

As Natasha selected more tokens for the Stark side — she was ringing a series of silver bells for Col. Rhodes — Bucky laid his brow on Steve's nape, where his hair had been clipped closest. The sensation heated Steve up with such force that it was like a shot of chill, trickling from where Bucky's breaths touched his back to his ribs to the sides of his hands. It was bad enough he needed the shield for cover on his lap; he didn't know his nipples could get that hard, that fast. In front of Coulson. In front of Natasha, who could probably sense it happening, and whose smirk was probably sharpening just to make Steve's face feel like a blast furnace.

It occurred to him that he had fallen into the habit of plotting massive military gambits while flirting with someone he was sweet on.

"There's, um," Phil spoke up. He took a deep breath. "There's a chance the DNA tracking is ours." He presented the tablet with all the Accounting data.

The couch cushions shifted as Natasha drew up in what Steve privately called her 'watchfully nonchalant' stance. The punch bowl had yet to be spiked, but she'd catch it if it was.

There was the staccato drumroll of a knife on wood. May swept the chopped spring onions across the cutting board. "Before you say anything, Rogers, this could be strictly internal."

Bucky's growl vibrated Steve's whole body. "'Internal'?! It's fucking Hydra!"

Steve rubbed his knee, even as his own blood began to boil. Milk and cookies. They had to lead with milk and cookies. Never mind that Santa's diary might be in Hydra hands. Tentacles. Better for all that May and Coulson were active allies than knocked out by an enhanced punch.

Coulson was preternaturally calm. "But it could be SHIELD. It could be nothing more than a difference of opinion between two old friends."

Natasha rolled the radiometer bauble, whirring wildly this close to the fire. "You suggesting this secret op that Sitwell was warning of... is sanctioned? Just not by Nick?" She bumped it into the Santa ornament — it was a bobblehead.

"That's ridiculous," said Steve.

May was suddenly looming over them, arms crossed with the knife half-forgotten in hand. "They are _very_ old friends. Who's to say they're not as compromised as you two?"

On another day, Steve might give the idea all the contemplation it deserved. Presently he was gripping the shield-strap so hard that it was biting into his palm. "Then all of SHIELD is balanced on Nick Fury's compromised judgment. That 'old friend' has been using _my_ friend like a disposable asset. For decades."

Bucky was breathing hard, and poised to move.

Sam reached out and gently tapped Melinda's knife till she lowered it. He withdrew quickly, as though to acknowledge the gaffe of touching someone's knife without permission. She retreated. 

"Let's say this is true," Sam said levelly. He retrieved, and plopped a bag of oranges in the middle of the couch. Prompted, Bucky took a fruit. "That means someone who's had his identity stripped away and brainwashed into fighting some secret war is just another SHIELD employee."

The microwave's door slammed.

Bucky actually stifled a laugh. "Too bad I can't apply for a Christmas bonus. That'd be a doozy." The tension bled out of him as he focused on starting to peel, by touch, under Steve's breastbone.

Sam aimed his disgust at the SHIELD agents. "That how you do business?"

Natasha snatched an orange from the bag. "In this business? I'm starting to think it is."

Coulson looked stricken. 

Natasha drove whole cloves into her orange, uninviting further comment.

Steve breathed deep. The contingencies were flying at him from different directions, but as far as the plan went... 

The scent of fresh oranges filled his nose. He'd secretly loathed getting them in his stockings. He'd never said a word, not wanting to sound ungrateful — but his mother had scrimped and saved to get him imported citrus year-round, for his health, so it wasn't the special treat for him that it was for every other kid on the block.

Bucky was messily peeling his orange. Its juices were getting all over his metal arm.

Steve considered changing his policy on oranges.

Meanwhile Phil hovered closer to Natasha; perhaps after all of it, he was harder to divert when there were words left unsaid.

Unfortunately his whisper wasn't low enough for supersoldiers' ears. "Tasha, you know that's not—"

"Save it," Nat said forcibly. She sighed. "We all do what we must, not to die."

Phil looked unhappy. Melinda slipped back, ostensibly to scour the Accounting data for more patterns.

"That's typical government shit," said Sam. His voice wasn't so steady. "Change the paperwork around, shuffle a dude into a different category. All of a sudden you're serving another tour in the back-end of nowhere, hoping your Christmas arrives in a cardboard box, and you don't leave in one."

"Sam," said Steve with a sad smile. He reached over and caught his hand.

"Sorry, man. My bad, I'm out of line."

"No need. The holidays are rough," said Steve as gently as he could.

The agents wore leaden expressions, and not only because they were raking through the coals of their organization. Bucky focused on the orange, his way of giving them space.

With a squeeze of his hand and a sigh, Sam tried to shake it off. Later Steve would call him out for it, but no Wilson could abide blotting out the lightness of gathered company. So Sam cast about for a subject change. "Nice place. Not bad for the online version of rooms at the inn, huh? When Nat said you were in front of a yule log, I thought she meant watching it on tv."

Bucky lipped off an orange segment. "They broadcast that? A piece of wood on fire?"

"What good is it if it doesn't give off any heat?" said Steve.

Sam looked entirely too cheered that there were now two curmudgeons in the set. "You should put the television on. Your virtual innkeeper might get suspicious that you were here the whole time and _didn't_ try to steal his Netflix."

Obligingly Bucky produced the remote control. Likely from the same place he'd stashed the gun.

"Try this channel," said Melinda.

And there was the recycled news report of the bizarre press conference given by Tony Stark. He was ushered away by his chief of security before he could do anything rash. The Malibu mansion was still evacuated. Every call was going to voicemail, each message taken by a placid British voice.

Once the blurb wrapped up, Sam said, "This have anything to do with that hacker interrupting my dad's tv shows? Because my buddy at Homeland isn't too busy to answer his texts. The forwarded Vines included."

Nat and Steve shook their heads... but they shared an anxious look. It was old news, though, and neither Clint nor Bruce would be reckless enough to show themselves on camera.

"And that's not this Hydra op?" said Melinda. Still skeptical. "Officially no one's happy that Iron Man is out of bed checking out what's going bump in the night. Unofficially, no one's raised the threat level. That doesn't fit their profile?"

Bucky gusted a sigh in the direction of Steve's earlobe. "I thought it was, at first. Supersoldiers — right up Zola's alley. Look, if it's gotta be spelled out... _I'm_ the gumshoe who scared up the Stark intel. I nearly passed it to your pal Sitwell because it was clear he hadn't a clue." Coulson stirred, but kept his peace. "The connections are circumstantial. Financials trace to a single source, and Hydra likes to skim from multiple accounts. SHIELD cut their funding around the time Steve and I got back out in the world.

"Overall... execution's too sloppy. I filled in Doc Banner before we split. He keeps an eye on this shit, and he agreed with my assessment."

"So Tony Stark," said Melinda. " _The_ high-value target, is simply a distracting fireworks show?"

"He's also high-risk. I told you, they want perfect obedience."

Steve snorted. Natasha perched the Iron Dove on a shotglass of popcorn.

Then she tweaked the Santa bobblehead. "If Nick had hair left, he'd be tearing it out. There's chatter surrounding the White House... outside of SHIELD's jurisdiction. If this was all about Tony, Nick would've flown over there himself; he's done it before. But he hasn't decamped from his office."

"Stark's been an effective distraction before," said Coulson pointedly.

"The obvious move _would_ be to spring their trap at point of maximum disarray. However! Tony is his own natural disaster. If I were them," Nat smiled at Bucky's trigger-twitch, "Which I am not, I would wait to see where the chips land."

"I have a feeling that'd be their SOP when it comes to Stark. All along," said Coulson blearily. He rubbed at his temple.

Natasha dropped a holly wreath on Phil's head. 

Steve shifted, not unpleasantly, in Bucky's grasp. "Nick's not leaving his own front door. I heard Maria Hill got recalled from New York. All the more reason: whatever it is they're planning is coming to town."

"To mention the obvious, the Triskelion is equipped to identify and respond to global situations," said May.

"So is the Bus," said Steve. Which was hosting at least one Hydra popcorn kernel.

"So is the North Pole," said Sam. "Like you said, Stark's never not made waves. It's serendipity. It's like, hey, here's this festival that falls in the depths of winter. Let's co-opt it for Christmas. Oldest story in the book, if it was an extremely evil book."

Bucky was focused on his orange. "...Hydra would sponsor it, at most. Minimum effort. It's the usual destabilizing shit to get everybody twitchy. Then Hydra swoops in with another wave of 'order through pain' recruitment drives."

Sam looked as disturbed as Steve felt.

"Which is exactly when SHIELD recruitment rates rise," said Nat.

Sam shook his head. "Man, that's messed up." He straightened up. "What will you need me to do? Upload this shit to Facebook? I'm not as handy as Nat, but I learn fast."

Steve was so damn lucky that Sam was in his life. The Wilsons had placed a strict dollar limit on their holiday exchange, but Steve felt the lure of playing the swell and inundating Sam's front stoop with online purchases.

Bucky was marking Steve's silent gush of emotions. The shift of his metal plates seemed to signal a decision made. "Something better than that," he said to Sam, making a show of examining an orange segment. "There's a gift for you in the bedroom."

Nat was taken by surprise.

Sam played at skepticism. "This isn't one of _those_ kind of toys, is it?"

Bucky purred, "Those toys are not where you can find them."

Steve emitted a helpless squeak.

"Gross," said Natasha, in three syllables. She was smiling.

Sam rose. Backed up into the bedroom. He didn't break eye contact till he was through the door.

Steve tried to catch Bucky's eye himself without succumbing to the temptation of licking orange juice off his chin.

Melinda got up as well to beat the microwave timer, to give the rice broth a stir.

Nat was busy arguing with Phil that they couldn't _report_ this to the very people who were most likely Hydra when a shriek echoed through the apartment.

"What in the world," said Coulson.

Unperturbed, Bucky dropped the uneaten orange segments back in the bag, while continuing to bracket Steve.

"My nerves, Romanoff," complained Melinda. The microwave's keypad made its irksome beeps, then was replaced by the ray-gun hum of cooking.

Without losing her place, Nat turned up the volume on the television.

Sam came charging into the living room, smiling like he'd been concussed with a happy stick and he was stuck that way. He dropped a backpack-sized contraption at the threshold, changed his mind, turned a figure-eight, and grabbed it again, only to drop it behind the couch.

"Happy Christmas," said Bucky.

"Your boyfriend, Steve!" Sam hooted. "Watch out, I'm gonna hug his creamy ass."

"No," Steve choked. "No one is, before I get to— no, Sam!"

Sam was over the couch back, and was pumping his fists like a referee calling a touchdown before either Steve or Bucky could scoot away.

" _My wings!_ Boyfriend of Steve, we are now best friends."

"Are we." Bucky lifted Steve out of Sam's reach, but not before Sam got in a few good jubilant shakes to his arm.

Sam righted himself before Bucky could opt to maim him. "Truth." He bounced on the couch.

"My creamy ass is not yours to hug," said Bucky.

Steve blushed.

Sam backed up, remembered he was on the couch, and tumbled backwards to put his hands on the contraption. "Cool, it's cool. I teach a class about consent, I ain't jumping you without a pass." Instead, he hugged ... the jetpack? Wings. Hell, all this time Steve had thought he was a pilot. Suddenly a whole lot of doublespeak between Natasha and Sam made sense now.

"Good," said Bucky. "I would toss you off a building."

"Which I would then fly away from because I got my wingsssss."

"You're screwy."

"I am above average in every way, but in the air? Baby, I am outstanding." Sam posed.

"And I'm not your baby."

Steve was sandwiched between two completely different varieties of _happiness_. He didn't know what to do with himself.

"My bad. Who's my new best friend's name? We'll be Steve's secret besties, I wouldn't out you like I wouldn't out my mama."

"...Bucky."

Sam quit hopping. "No shit."

"In the flesh. More or less."

Steve caught his breath. Among other things, he felt terribly, terribly guilty as Sam's joy was tempered. Quick as a flash, the look vanished. Sam parked his wings on the couch.

Nat poured it a mug of eggnog.

"You were on the Khalid Khandil op?" Melinda shot a look at Coulson.

"Yeah," Sam deflected. "A'ight. What are we all doing? Saving the world?"

"Yes," said Bucky.

"Sam, we can't ask you to—" Steve said, again.

"I'm in."

"Sam."

"I. Told. You. I am in. You couldn't use a subway card before you met me. You gonna save the world without me, Rogers? Don't think so."

"You couldn't use a subway card?"

Steve was about to check Bucky with a kiss when Coulson, wreath askew, stood up and offered his hand to Sam.

"Please excuse our rudeness, Airman Wilson. Phil Coulson. On behalf of SHIELD, I apologize that you've—"

Sam's pointer finger interrupted. "You! Oh my goodness. _You're the one who dressed Steve up in his trading card uniform!_ "

Phil lost the script.

"Melinda May," came the self-introduction. "Thank you," Melinda added, with an amused brow-lift in Phil's direction.

"You're welcome. Sam, please."

"Those were advanced polymers...!" Coulson actually flailed.

"Ha ha, sure. That suit was real snug. _Real snug_." Sam smirked. "Vivid."

Bucky seized up like badly melted chocolate.

Steve ignored it for now— were Coulson and May close? "That means Sam's in," he said. 

"I'm the angel," Sam declared. "Call me Harold."

Steve groaned. Nat got right on it with the ornament cache.

"Wildcard," said Bucky, a touch dazed. "Needs a codename."

"Falcon is cooler, but since this is some fucked-up spook mission? Glory be," said Sam.

"Or certain death, with a side of treason," said May.

"If needs be," said Steve gravely.

Phil looked wan under his crown of fake holly.

"I'll drink to that," said Natasha. "Since that is settled, now that we know that the can opener works..." Melinda froze, as Nat pushed the tiny gift ornament to the fore. "...is it midnight yet, Captain Polar Bear? When do we tear this open?"

Steve did not laugh at the looks on their faces. It had taken him a minute to put together why Natasha had used the identical type of flash drive, when a smaller version could have compressed a year's worth of Accounting audit. Testing their veracity, indeed.

"Yeah, who's checking the odds? I'm getting the vibe that we can't wait for Christmas Day to tear this up," said Sam.

He jumped when Bucky reached behind to draw a thick, nasty knife. It was from the one holster Steve hadn't investigated, stuck between Bucky's shoulderblades very like that one action gorefest that Sam had insisted was a Christmas movie.

"How snug?" Bucky demanded.

"Very," said Sam quickly.

"High-definition photos, I want access when this is over," said Bucky in a near-growl.

Sam looked like he was figuring out how to get the SnugnessTM notarized.

Steve very skillfully did not expire on the spot.

One-handed, Bucky squeezed and twisted. A familiar drive popped out of the blade's hilt.

Everyone watched it hungrily like it really was the last tin of meat in the foxhole. Very quietly, Natasha held her breath.

With barely a shiver of her eyelash, Melinda flipped their tablet straight up into the air. Coulson looked like he wanted to say something.

"Phil, one way or another," said Steve firmly. "Christmas is coming early."

On the next flip, Melinda tossed the 'can-opener' to Bucky.

Finally, the program was grabbing onto the bits of Hydra code like a cat gathering tinsel.

They circled around, Natasha hovered on one side, with Sam on the other.

The microwave was beeping.

 

*

 

Steve and Bucky both swore colorfully enough to stretch the limits of the 'nice' list.

"Coordinates?" Coulson asked.

"Is that south of here?" Melinda tried.

"There's a—" Natasha was saying.

Bucky interrupted. "Don't load a map program. Negative on a trace?" Without waiting, he exploded out of his crouch and with eerie silence, darted to the bedroom.

"The jammer is holding," Nat said. "And we're not blown up."

"How did you know my Christmas wish?" Sam said. He was itching for an explanation.

Steve could barely form words. "Nat. These tags? That's an origin?"

"Affirmative. The buffer says this is the source of the A.I. That's what's changing the encryption." She moved over so Bucky could claim the area below the ornaments. "That's what prevented us from opening it."

Bucky spread out a map. A real paper map. Steve picked up the shield to make room, a wave of nostalgia warring with sick, terrible outrage. He fixated on Bucky's hands smoothing out the folds. "You were always the best pathfinder," he blurted out. Bucky flicked an inscrutable glance at him, in the midst of pinpointing the coordinates. "Jacques was a hair better, but he grew up in that countryside."

"Here." Bucky tapped. "I wasn't gonna say I told you so."

"Oh my God. That's Camp Lehigh." Phil grimaced.

"That where you did Basic?" said Sam.

"Yeah. That building's new," said Steve. "It can't be an armory. Not that close to the barracks."

"That's where they made Captain America," said Phil. "I mean, that's where the project began. I don't— that building isn't new. The base hasn't changed since the... 1950's..."

"The precursor to SHIELD," said Natasha. Sam grimaced as the full extent of it dawned on him.

Melinda got up to pace. She aimed a mostly delicate kick at the snowglobe. "That's where this doctor is? The brains?"

"Brain in a box," said Bucky. He sat back, his jaw working.

"I hate him," said Steve.

"You and me both, sweetums. We'll blow him up, if you like."

"Oh no, you lovebirds are not going anywhere near that," said Natasha. She threw a chestnut at Steve— who bounced it off the shield and into the fire. "Show-off. Barnes, if this doctor is your original puppetmaster, he'll have your controls, too."

She spared a meaningful glance at Steve, and the furrow on Bucky's brow deepened. If there were subconscious controls in Steve, then Zola would most likely have possession of those, too.

Steve really hated him. Bucky gave him some nuts to crack.

More maps came out, this time of the areas around the Triskelion, the (real) DC underground, and other strategic hot spots. Coulson blanched every time Bucky's metal fingertip exactly traced each building's deeply classified specs.

"Steve," said Nat. "There's no water or sewage running to the doctor's office. No fire control, not so much as a drinking fountain."

"Unmanned?"

Sam pointed out, "If the map's accurate. How deep does this conspiracy of yours run?"

Bucky let out a little hiss. "Zola drops off the public timeline in the 1970's. Maybe they got a jar small enough for his fruitcake brain. Hydra's recipes didn't require water."

"If that's at all biological, we can't mount a remote attack," Natasha realized.

"If we tried and failed a remote attack, I suppose we'd be caught," said Steve, shattering shells in his fist. He hoped Zola had a nose that he could cave in — but Nat was right, it couldn't be him. Definitely not Bucky. "We're lucky the DNA tracking presumably takes snapshots instead of live motion. The man for it would be Tony. I hate to say it: the best we can do is wait on his back-up, and hope he'll get out of his quandary fast enough to be _our_ back-up."

Bucky had fished out a star with a striped streamer. Melinda reappeared with a tray of the steaming congee and stacks of tableware . As she passed, Bucky snagged a platter from under a bowl. He placed Steve the Dessert Platter in the center, and topped it with the shooting star. Steve squirmed.

Nat paused in the middle of arranging Tony's enemies. —Did you mention to Bruce that it was Hydra?—

—You kidding me? We were in the middle of nowhere. I wasn't risking a Hulk.—

"What about...?" Steve started.

"Clint?" said Nat. "He'll use his discretion."

"So Tony doesn't know about Hydra?" said Steve.

Natasha lined up some shiny hard candies to face off with the dove. "For his own protection. I do agree with Barnes' assessment. Sloppy and erratic means personal. I'm well acquainted with Tony's brand of enemies. They make New Years' resolutions and stick to them. Present an extra problem to Tony, and he'll spread his focus too thinly."

May raised a brow at their crowded board. "And we're not getting spread thin?"

"You've got me now," said Sam easily. When Steve first met him, he'd have mistaken that for hollow bravado. It was Sam's way of saying he knew the slim odds, and they were damned worth it.

"If you're right about the pressure point being here in DC," said May. "That means we need to be positioned very carefully."

"You can't seriously—" began Coulson.

Ignoring him, May put the dessert plate in the middle of the SHIELD chestnuts. "To take advantage of Stark's disarray. You two will be on the ins—"

Bucky tackled Steve.

The ornaments bounced.

Everyone else raised their soup bowls out of the way.

"Bucky, I have to!"

"What did I tell you about STRIKE!"

"I'll stick to Sharon, okay? She's still clean, isn't she, Nat?"

Natasha was studying their tactical trimmings. "Yes. You know who her aunt is. The only reason I haven't read her in is that she works closely with STRIKE. Ditching her surveillance would raise flags. Don't worry; she's very capable, my dear nutcracker."

She offered the basket of ornaments, and Steve twisted out of Bucky's grasp long enough to nab it. Bucky yanked him back by his belt-loops. No matter — before he toppled, Steve managed to fling an oversized, freestanding reindeer to land next to the Cap platter. It had a little tinsel stuck to its tines, but he didn't think Sharon would mind.

Bucky attached to his midsection, Steve began moving their ornaments on the field. The plan wasn't perfect. O God, there were a host of people on the line. But something had to be drawn up, something had to be done now that Bucky's vaguest nightmares were solidly confirmed.

"Sharon and I will be inside the Triskelion. We'll rendezvous with Hill if we can, so that'll be _three_ of us, okay, Buck? You and Sam will cover the exterior, and handle evac if possible."

"To shut down the Hydra op," said Coulson. A tad desperately.

Steve spared a curt nod. "And light it up like a spruce in Rockefeller Plaza. Natasha, you'll have to package the data with or without Tony. What'll you need for that?"

"Two Alpha level clearances."

Oh, they could figure something out for that. "My primary objective will be to mobilize anyone who's willing to stand against Hydra. That'll take a matter of minutes. After that, I'll engage whatever patsy they've got waiting in the wings."

Captain Platter found itself lining up opposite the snowman eraser.

Steve barreled on. "Somehow I doubt we're going to luck out and find Zola in the basement of SHIELD, and if Bucky and I are out for that..." Steve sighed. He ticked the snowglobe with his fingernail, then pointed at the ottoman. "To be blunt, I'm not comfortable deploying your team with an unknown number of Hydra on your roster."

"Also the brain shit," said Bucky. 

May winced.

"Wait." Coulson's wreath was slipping. He shoved it back in place. " _Stop._ I... I'm sorry, Natasha. I have to stop this. This is crazy. We don't have the intel to confirm any of this! Everything is from ... you, all of you brought in from a single—! This is a classic manipulation of Captain Rogers. I've seen you take down countries like this."

Natasha didn't move.

The crackle of the fire was loud in the silence.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plotting in a winter wonderland.  
> With a mix and a-mingle half-chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated note that Sam chooses to school the guy who can't check social awareness resources without alerting Hydra, and Melinda won't be conforming to a holiday standard just because it's 'classic.' Characters did what they willed, and were not obligated to illustrate like a Dickens.

### Later On We'll Conspire

Steve could understand it. He knew what it was like to live on a knife's edge. Phil was in denial, and probably not a little hurt. But Steve had trouble wrapping his mind around it. Phil Coulson had just accused Natasha Romanoff of... he couldn't even _think_ it. There was Nat's superficial reputation, and then there was telling a kindergartener that there was no such thing as—

Bucky said, "I'm pretty sure everyone in this room knows how to take down a country. Just putting that on the table."

Now that he was short a jacket, Coulson's holster was visible. It was secured.

Melinda didn't need a weapon, but then again, neither did anyone else. Bucky had a solid point.

Natasha could easily neutralize the room. If she chose to move. She was balanced stone-still on the couch arm, one leg crossed over her knee.

Sam was watching Steve for cues, a palm on his wing pack. "Hey, don't look at me," he said. "Even if I'm bound to pick it up from Steve, whole countries are above my paygrade."

Steve shook the nutshells off. He drank the rest of the eggnog. Couldn't let it go to waste. He said to Sam, "Remember how I said those Mexican standoffs weren't realistic?"

"Those are stupid," said Bucky. "Duck fast and shoot first."

Sam grinned. "Is that your professional opinion?"

"My professional opinion is this is stupid," Bucky said. 

"Captain Rogers," Coulson said with the stiffness of a wind-up toy. "I'm sure you grasp my concern? Your plan is going take down SHIELD."

"It'd burn Hydra out," said Bucky. "Now that's what I call a season of miracles."

"You have a mustache," said Melinda faintly.

"I'm not the evil version," Steve protested. (He and Col. Rhodes had binge-watched Star Trek between assignments.) "SHIELD has to be dismantled. Lit up so it can be seen from space. I'm in a unique position of having inside access with my public persona intact. Other agencies will have to follow suit, and clean house."

Bucky kissed him on the side of the mouth— and slurped. "She means Romanoff put whipped cream on your eggnog, and you've got a little. There."

Steve tried to bat him away. It wasn't working.

"This isn't... lending itself..." Phil tried. "To convincing anyone that you're not compromised."

Sam was marking an exit route through the sitting room. "Man, sooner or later you've gotta make peace that you're not getting the hula hoop _or_ the hippopotamus. "

Steve came up for air. He cupped Bucky's face in his hands, gently, and though Bucky stilled at first, he didn't break away. Neither of them were particularly distracted — the movement brought the shield up, and behind its cover Bucky was bracing for action. "Phil," said Steve, "I know I'm compromised. That doesn't make it any less true. I know how this all looks, but we are not resting on a throne of lies."

Silently he willed Bucky not to give up any more of his secrets for more leverage. No more dirty, grey slush when they were so close to a new day. He glanced up at Natasha.

Bucky did too; unlike Steve, he wasn't at a loss for what to do. His accent swooped into Brooklyn and Brighton Beach, disarming in a way Steve would swear he knew by heart. "If I were any kind of agent, I'd suspect Natashenka of colluding with your Hydra mole." He managed to kick the ottoman with Steve's hand resting on his knee.

—I will stab you if you keep using that name.— Even in Russian, Natasha's affect sounded strangely flat.

—Careful, Spider. This mother tongue can produce more and more adorable nicknames, like a nesting doll.—

Okay, there was a tiny twitch of a smile.

—You are gross and you're making Stevie-darling gross.—

"Please don't get in the habit of calling me that," advised Steve. "Could we... at least make do with what we have?"

Sam agreed. "In the spirit of the season. Making do is better than nothing."

Melinda yanked the ottoman in front of herself. For a few seconds, she picked at the kernels like abacus beads. "Even compartmentalized, a mole on the Bus would have briefed you about Phil," she said to Natasha. "That's vital intel. In my professional opinion that... heartfelt reunion of yours was a genuine reaction."

Phil didn't correct her, even though his cheekbone and chin had felt the reunion first.

"Thank you," was all Natasha said.

Slowly, May laid the Accounting file on the ottoman, and re-ordered a number of items scattered across categories. "There's a likely candidate for the DNA tracking."

"You mean the targeting," said Steve.

"Helicarriers," said May.

Coulson's attention shifted to her. "That's still in dry dock. After all the post-battle damage—"

"No, Phil," said Melinda. " _Helicarriers._ "

Natasha closed her eyes. "The bays under the Potomac."

"The river!?" Sam said.

"How many helicarriers?" Steve said urgently.

"By my estimates? Three of them."

Coulson wavered. "Three?!"

Shaking his head, Sam found a trio of hens and placed them by the Triskelion cluster.

It was an abundance of... overkill was the precise term.

Bucky seemed resigned. He said, "Sure would replace the Winter Soldier, all right." He shot a speaking look at Steve: his intel was at an end. He'd planned to shake down Zola for the rest.

Steve looked over at Natasha. "Tony mentioned he was redesigning the helicarrier engines after he nearly got shredded in their turbines. He gave me the impression that Nick would invite him to the ribbon-cutting."

"Three of that same vessel that was airborne over New York City," said Sam, still incredulous. "Lurking under the river."

"Still not a party," murmured Natasha.

"Nick didn't tell you, Nat?" Steve said. He was trying to keep it light, his mind racing through the possibilities of stopping that kind of force. "I thought you were Santa's little helper?"

Bucky started chuckling. Lightly, and laced with hysteria. "...sorry. Santa's Little Helper. Ah. You haven't seen The Simpsons yet?"

"All those... episodes...?" Steve trailed off. It was dawning on him that Natasha had no reaction at all. She might have been an ice sculpture. "Oh, Nat. Nick _didn't_ tell you."

He was ashamed that he hadn't picked up on it earlier. Granted, Nat was good at hiding things in plain sight. She had been deflecting every time someone accused her of being a turncoat. What kind of wretched friend was he? Nick had sent Natasha on the Lemurian Star mission without telling her any of the background. And she had done it, because she trusted Nick.

Apparently the trust didn't go both ways.

"Don't worry about it," Natasha said, cool as an iceberg. "Nick Fury doesn't trust anybody." She looked at Coulson like she'd expected better of him.

May was scrolling through the files. "It would fit facts if this is Nick's pet project. Friction with the Council, with Pierce—"

"That fucker is _goddamn Hydra_ ," Bucky rumbled lowly. He wasn't willing to go beyond that. Steve gave him a squeeze.

"I'm sorry," said Coulson. He seemed to be regretting what he was about to do — Steve tightened his grip on the shield.

Phil could burn them with a single call.

"This is _stupid_ ," Bucky said forcefully. He reached into his pocket.

Oh sure, everybody had a burner phone. Add it to the list.

Bucky held it up for Steve to push the call button. Showing him the number.

With a tap, Steve put it through.

"Thanks, dollface."

"That had better be untraceable, Barnes," said May. Without looking she poked Phil's chest with a candy cane.

Natasha didn't seem sure it would connect through her jamming tech, but she remained silent.

"Natashenka." She looked over at Bucky. "I didn't mean anything untoward. Santa's Little Helper is _loyal_."

The phone connected.

"Season's greetings, Spruce Goose," said Bucky. 

Stark tech. Naturally. SHIELD surveillance was no match for it.

"Oh! H-hello, Red Ryder." There was rhythmic banging in the background.

"Bad time?"

"You know," said Bruce Banner wearily. "Exploding human bombs."

Wordlessly, Natasha took the hard candies sitting across from the Iron Dove, and dumped out a bowl of pinecones in their stead.

Bucky took a moment to shake off his what-in-the-ever-living-fuck expression.

Bruce was trying to muffle the phone. "Har— hey, no, you don't have to— I'll make the sandwiches, okay? Don't, don't listen to everything he says. Unless it's physics. He's, uh, he's usually right about that."

"Who's your friend? Without dropping names."

"Eleven-year-old boy whose lab space we're co-opting." Bruce sounded wry. "Apparently the Hulk doesn't appreciate flying through a snow storm."

"I woulda scared up a proper coat for you if I'd known."

Bruce laughed a little. "We're okay, well, physically okay. JARVIS was amazing."

All of a sudden, Melinda May shoved the tablet into the fray. Highlighted among the helicarrier expenditures were the Stark engines. Along with several other Stark contracts.

That got a rise out of Natasha. 'There is no way Tony is Hydra,' she mouthed.

The Iron Dove sat on its popcorn nest looking affronted.

Steve winced. This was why people made up curses involving the baby Jesus. _Controllable assets,_ he reminded himself. After a second, he thumped the Winter Eraser against the table to emphasize the point to the rest of the room.

"Stick to the code names, Spruce Goose. Or should I say, Doctor Goose."

"Um, okay, I'm supposed to ask you if this is on speaker."

"Yes," said Bucky carefully. "If you're being told to conceal your location from SHIELD, I'd say run with that."

"Huh," said Bruce. Very evenly. Steve leaned in to listen for Bruce's rate of breathing. "In that case I'd like to know the reason for your call."

"Coupla questions. Settle a ... wager. Who told you to go intercept your lab partner?"

"Natasha," he said, like it was obvious. "She also contacted—"

Bucky interrupted. "Don't. Is the situation under control? Do you need more people?"

"No, I think we have everything in hand. Unless everything blows up again. It, uh, might be related—" Coulson flailed eloquently once more. "—to your condition. Subjects have military training. Except they're regrowing limbs."

"Not replacing," Bucky clarified.

Sam frowned thoughtfully.

"Yes. The exothermic reaction is a side effect." Bruce's voice dropped. "What the hell is going on? Aren't you tracking the Iron Man suits? Fuck. Aren't you turning on the TV? We've had no other communication from SHIELD besides Tasha."

"Easy, Doc," soothed Bucky.

The acoustics matched a small space, like some kid's shed. On top of the general chaos, a Hulk-out might also set off a STRIKE response. Including Cap and Black Widow. That would be disastrous.

Unworried, Nat nominated a pickle ornament for the Hulk.

Suddenly Sam lunged over the couch arm and pointed at the phone. 

"Hang on a second," said Bucky. He checked with Nat — she shrugged. Steve wasn't wild about Sam putting his voice on anyone's record, including Tony's, but it was his choice. He tried to convey the warning.

Sam went ahead. "Hi, this is, uh, Harold Angel."

"Hello," said Bruce cautiously. 

"I'm a friend of..." Sam hesitated.

"Oh! Um, is it safe to ask? You're a friend of Ca— ah, um, Moonracer's?" There was some chortling in the background.

"...Yeah?"

"Nice to meet you. Red Ryder said he met him at your house."

"He what." Sam looked at Steve, who couldn't hide his horrified look fast enough. "He hasn't... the last time... _that was my mother's house!_ "

"That wasn't safe to mention?" Bruce ventured.

Oh, _now_ Bucky didn't have a guilty look.

Steve hid behind the shield.

Sam flipped him an I'm-watching-you gesture. "Never mind, Doc. Four months ago one of the amputees in a support group was approached by a government contractor with a proposal for top secret work. Shady as hockey pucks. They were claiming they could restore her leg; she said no. Word was they were poking around pretty aggressively throughout the VA. 

"They called themselves AIM. Alpha Indigo Mama. That ring a bell?"

There was a pause.

Then swearing. Steve hoped they had covered the kid's ears.

"Apparently," said Bruce dryly, "It's ringing a Mannheim Steamroller's worth of bells." He paused to let an argument through, as though waiting for a team of reindeer at a red light. "Sorry, codename scuffle. Our... other friends are looking into Christmas under palm trees."

"Could the other carollers keep an eye out for suborbital launches? That will not be Santa, copy? The furthest from."

"Already on it. There was an apparent fake-out, and we're still staying up to watch."

"We're not expecting it, but in case we don't fill out our postcards in time, it's priority one."

"We copy, Red Ryder. And—" he covered the telephone again, which made Steve's nerves jump. Then Bruce said, "No, I'm sure you don't get to pick your own nickname. That's not how it works. I'm vetoing Eagle One."

"Negative on Rudolph," said Bucky. He glanced at Melinda, who was still holding up the tablet. She mouthed something. "How about... oh, I did watch this. Cindy Lou Who."

Bruce guffawed. Giggling, and then another round of bickering erupted.

Steve relaxed a little. Defusing both Bruce and Tony was critically important.

"One more question, Doc," said Bucky. He checked with Steve, who spelled it out in sign language. "Ask Cindy Lou about that _blender_ he got caught in, this past summer?"

The background noise subsided. Bruce said, "You mean the one I broke?"

"Yeah, I think so. Was there supposed to be three of them, brand new, under the tree?"

The noise spiked. Steve could hear Bruce smothering the phone on whatever sweater he was wearing. His heartbeat was unnervingly loud as Tony erupted in an understandable tirade.

"That would be a negative, Red Ryder," said Bruce.

"Okay, okay. Leave that alone. Shut down what you've got in front of you, understand? Look, this is only Christmas Eve. Okay? If anyone's gonna see Boxing Day, when your—" Natasha spelled another word for Bucky. "When your party's wrapped up in a bow, you've got to put yourselves in front of a lot of computing power. What about you, Doc, can you work his tech?"

Bruce was bewildered. "Uh, I'm not as good as Cindy... fine, I'll stop. I know my way around."

"I'm gonna assume you'll make it out," said Bucky, and they both snorted. "You're the back-up. Further contact might not be possible. If there's something faster than flying sleigh, _take it_. You copy, Doc?"

"Copy that. Dr. Who says he's going to sue SHIELD, by the way."

Steve sat up. He met Bucky's eyes.

That was it!

That was the topper. Plan A was now Plan B, and Plan A was—

"Jingle all the way, Doc." Bucky didn't skip a beat. "You hear what I hear? Jingle _all the way._ "

*

The metal arm was squeezing Steve like a stuffed bear, but he wasn't complaining. Bucky was exhausted; Steve was so proud of him.

Bucky finished it off. One at a time he picked them up, pinched between metal thumb and forefinger. The platter, with the shooting star. The angel. And a tiny red elf. He rattled Captain Platter like a collection plate, and with his flesh hand shoved the Hulk pickle under their noses.

The implication was clear. Bucky might be playing out a Hydra plot. Natasha might be playing out her own agenda. Steve was compromised, and Sam might be a ringer.

But Dr. Bruce Banner had no reason to lie to them. He was too careful to be mislead by government schemes.

Phil nodded woodenly. Message received.

Steve cleared his throat. "Would you like some soup, Phil?"

They hadn't much appetite for it, though the congee had cooled from scalding to closer to pleasantly warm. Still, thanks to Steve and Bucky, there wasn't much left on the tray.

Coulson was the only one without a serving. He looked like he was expecting a box of coal.

Natasha didn't quite relax, but she granted Phil some space by slicing a length of ribbon for her handcrafted pomander.

"It's not bad," coaxed Melinda. "Nothing like what my grandma made."

A loop of ribbon her finger, Natasha tried very hard not to look stung. "That bad?" she said with flimsy lightness.

"It is pretty close to the triple order my grandmother placed every year at Kwong Chow restaurant."

Bucky and Steve stopped in the middle of getting up to refill the tureen. "I thought you said she made it," Steve said.

"She'd go around back — like a common criminal, my mother said — to get the order without spring onions. She'd add those in fresh, and that way," Melinda's lips twisted fondly, "She could tell everyone she made it. I didn't figure it out until I badgered her for the recipe. Never got out of the habit of repeating that line." She reclined next to the ottoman. "The holidays are full of polite fictions. There's something to be said about the real story."

Phil's jaw unhinged. "The Bus is landing at 0500 at Kohoutek Airfield for pickup."

"It's a plane?! You might've said," Bucky exclaimed. He and Steve had the broth stirred and served in a jiffy. "Though maybe not in front of Steve—"

"I'm never living that down, am I?" Steve said, giving Bucky a kiss on the cheek.

"Nope," said Bucky peaceably.

Steve felt a wave of affection to go hand-in-hand with the relief. The plan was falling into place like a magic jigsaw puzzle. "Here you go, Phil," said Steve, awash in goodwill. Bucky was right behind him with their own mandatory second helpings. Maybe this time he'd taste it. It did smell scrumptious. They tumbled into their nest on the rug. Bucky shoved him so he'd tuck in faster. "...this really is good, Nat. You sure about that satellite launch window?"

"Yes. Someone's watching out for us, Rogers; the weather's nasty at almost all of the functional pads, and Sharon's shut down the rest. If they could change the Earth's rotation, they would've done it by now. The helicarriers could launch," said Nat. "Since the Triskelion is crawling with Hydra, and the federal government is on holiday, they'll have nothing to aim at without those satellites."

"What's the minimum for evac?" Steve said between slurping chicken.

Natasha shrugged. "Twenty-four hours before we need to worry. _I_ wouldn't worry until 36 hours from now. I still think it's another week." She glanced at Sam, who nodded.

Steve turned to Phil and Melinda. "Natasha's program can cover you on the way out." Nat nodded briskly at that. "Are we all on the same page, now? Any objections?"

"This is probably insensitive," said Sam, "I wanna shake the three French hens onto Nick Fury's desk and tell him he's gonna shoot an eye out."

Coulson measured out a pinch of 'a little bit.'

"I could land you on his private helipad so you can do just that," said Melinda.

"I have an objection," said Natasha with faux haughtiness. "I am not an elf."

Bucky murmured, "I wasn't about to make you the ballerina."

There was the slightest widening of Nat's eyes, and a gap where Steve could sense Bucky on tenterhooks. Then she melted into couch cushions, spine straight yet the most relaxed she'd been all evening. She tossed the clove-studded orange over Phil's head, and the ribbon caught on one of the hooks above the fireplace.

—Show-off,— said Bucky.

Steve probably looked like he'd been clobbered by the happy stick.

"I know that look," said Bucky. "Rogers has a plan."

"You're going to tell him it's a wonderful plan," said Melinda.

"I'm waiting to hear it so's I can tell him he's a knucklehead."

"I'm feeling awfully treasured here, pal."

"Steve," said Natasha, kicking them both. Neither budged a whit. "Tis the season for sharing."

Steve set aside his empty bowl, and surveyed their ornament battle plan. "You can hide a helicarrier, but you can't hide three of them launching out of the middle of the nation's capital. Hydra's coming out of the cold for the first time in decades. They obviously have a timetable. They're gearing up for a pageant. That means the gift-wrap is part of their plan."

"Optics," said Phil.

"We're gonna beat them at their own game." Reluctantly Steve cleared off Captain Platter and dropped it in the middle of the Triskelion. He placed the reindeer and the elf beside it. "I'll give them what they want: Captain America. Nat, can you find the contingencies SHIELD has in place for me?" At Natasha's no-problem shrug, Steve went on. "Acquire them, split them between yourself and Sharon. Don't take great pains to hide it. If you need to use them on me, you'll have them, and if not, then Hydra won't."

Bucky made a noise like a dying moose. Steve gave him a head-scratch, and was rewarded with Bucky head-butting his pectoral.

Arm slung around Bucky, Steve grabbed the Iron Dove, and the fragrant votive candle. "Potts and Stark will take care of the rest. A while ago Tony and I had a discussion—"

"You mean you yelled," said Nat.

"—screaming row ending with testing rollerskates on the suits," amended Steve. "They must be ice skates by now. I had him explain what a nuclear deterrent was, and I explained what despots do with their surveillance states. I know for a fact he's not in favor of what SHIELD's doing with those helicarriers. Ms Potts even moreso. And Tony... tends to get mad so Bruce doesn't have to."

"When are you telling them about Hydra?" pressed Natasha.

Worried, Bucky caught Steve's eye. Steve sighed. "I'll brief them, Bruce _and_ Tony, when I get a chance. They can go a few without knowing. Tony's predictable in exactly one way — when it comes to his friends. Nat, would you please be back-up for reading them in? And if we're both unavailable, Sam? A hop to New York over the holidays won't stand out."

Natasha nodded. Sam said, "I've got the perfect icebreaker with my wings."

"Speaking of that, Sam, do they have any electronics? Like those chips?"

"Minimal stuff, mostly stabilizers. I can fly without them. Want me to field-strip them?"

"Please do." Steve did not use the angel to bash the cheap snowglobe to pieces. For Sam's sake. "I want you to make a recon run at Camp Lehigh. Don't engage. Make sure it's unmanned, and disconnected. And set it up so Natasha's jammers isolate Zola from the internet."

"We can add on a few more toys," volunteered Melinda.

"Wonderful."

"I keep forgetting," said Melinda, "That you don't mean that ironically." Sam chuckled.

"Who's tackling the supposed patsy?" said Bucky. The hand on Steve's lap was getting a little insistent.

With some semblance of dignity, Steve drew the shield closer. For cover. "I will. And I'll call for backup if I need it. I have learned my lesson," he said, as earnestly as he could. Present company wasn't buying it. "Okay...! Nat, if Tony's delayed, will we know immediately?"

"Clint has ways," confirmed Natasha.

"We'll watch the wire. If they can't take care of the helicarriers, then we revert to the first plan," said Steve.

"Death-ray a priority, got it," said Sam. 

"And if you're amenable," said Steve. He could at least take a shot at delicacy. "Melinda, Phil? Bucky can accompany you, and assist you on the Bus." He nudged the shooting star. "Whoever's Hydra will not be expecting the Winter Soldier to clean house."

A wolfish grin broke over Bucky's face.

Steve's toes curled.

Melinda picked up the star. "It would be an honor to have you, Barnes."

"What if Hydra tries to reacquire him?" said Natasha sharply.

"Easy," said Bucky. "Threaten to crash the plane."

Steve winced. At least he hadn't had to say it. "Sometimes I wish you weren't so quick on the uptake."

"Aw, don't worry, sweetheart. There's this nifty invention called the paaaaraaaachuuuuute—!"

Despite it all, Steve burst out laughing. He shoved at Bucky. "Shaddap, you!"

"Practice makes perfect," said Bucky. It was meant to be reassuring. Oddly enough, it was.

"You could rig up a chute to an altimeter and a timer," suggested Sam.

"And we have something that will probably work on you. To neutralize, I mean," said Coulson.

"I'll show you a few tricks." It was astounding coming from Bucky, and he acted like it was a run-of-the-mill offer. He kissed Steve gently, offering comfort in the midst of trying to slap him with a metal palm.

In response, Steve jerked his arm. There was a clang.

"...go the bells," Sam blurted.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" said Steve. "Are you okay?" The shield wasn't scratched, and fortunately neither was the arm. Their ears were still ringing, though.

"Nah, it'll take more than that to lick me," said Bucky. He rolled his shoulder in a way that left Steve's mouth dry.

Steve drew Bucky closer, as though that would help marshall his thoughts. "Once the Bus is secured, drop Bucky off to rendezvous with Sam to shore us up at the Triskelion."

Bucky flicked a glance at him under his eyelashes, as though unsure of its effect on Steve. Steve gave in and kissed him. Bucky looked smug.

"So much for critiquing his plan," Melinda said.

"I didn't say I'd critique it, I said he was my knucklehead."

Steve loved his jerk.

"We can do this, with some coordination," said Melinda. She turned to Phil.

Phil ran his hand over the Bus ornaments. "Still the same endgame," he said in a listless voice.

"SHIELD can't survive this. You can confirm that the Camp Lehigh facility was under SHIELD control the entire time?" While they were sleeping.

A curt nod. "Arnim Zola was brought over via Project Paperclip. He worked for exclusively for SHIELD." Phil sounded like he was reciting from a school history essay.

"Hydra," corrected Steve. "We're burning out the core. Whatever form Zola's taken, he's going to wish I tossed him off that train..."

"I got you," promised Sam. 

"...and he'll be the tip of the iceberg."

Sam threw a loop of sparkly garland like a quoit, and got it on top of the snowglobe. "If they've got a death-ray, why do they need a patsy, again?"

Bucky explained his Hydra-developed supersoldier predicament. 

Sam was thumbing his beard. "Were these dudes brainwashed too?"

"I doubt it. They'd be indoctrinated. True believers."

"The kind you stop. I gotcha."

"Be careful," warned Bucky.

"I'm always careful. Except when I leave Steve Rogers alone with our candy stockpile."

"That's not in the history books?" said Bucky, lips quirking. "He was always stealing our chocolate rations."

"You sure that wasn't you?" Sam shot back. 

Melinda tapped their snowman eraser. "They don't need to be a useful operative. All they need is a blitz attack, and once law enforcement comes searching, here _you_ are," she indicated Bucky. "On the grid."

Steve turned to press a kiss on Bucky's cheek. "I made sure he's dead this time," he said.

Bucky's eyes, clear and bright, met his with perfect understanding. Steve hadn't done too well the first time around. Or, the second. Bucky kissed him on the side of the nose, and nudged him to finish the last of his helping.

Nat was looking at her congee like she couldn't fathom how her soup bone had turned into a holiday gathering.

"We'll keep it that way," she promised. "As long as you need." She flicked her gaze to each of them — Phil last of all.

Then her foot shot out in a crisp battement and clipped Bucky on the metal shoulder, hard. Bucky bore it with a measure of affection. It was probably some Russian thing.

Steve sucked off his spoon, then pointed at the field. "If we're wrong about SHIELD being Hydra central, then we can ask Sharon for invitations to the other agencies. Worst case scenario, the previous plan's unchanged. Tony will get a crack at it, then Natasha."

"Toppling the government only a little," said Melinda. "Like only eating the one piece of pie."

"At the extremities, the president owes both Tony and myself a few markers. He's supposed to be in control of the executive branch. If it's more widespread than estimated..." Steve blew out a sigh. He threw his shoulders back, and like they'd always done so, his lungs filled... this time with woodsmoke, chicken soup, warm spices, and Bucky. "I have to believe the American people don't want a world fashioned by Hydra. If I'm wrong? We'll convince them otherwise."

Bucky and Sam exchanged looks. "With your pretty face?" Bucky asked.

"If I have to powder my nose and live in a house full of nutcases," said Steve.

"It's called the Avengers," said Natasha. She inclined her head. "Speaking of faces, why the long one, Phil? And don't say it's my good aim."

Phil Coulson had his head in his hands, the wreath lopsided as his smile. "It's just... I thought the only thing wrong was my sense of reality getting twisted like a pretzel. My biggest problem was being _dead_."

"Being dead is overrated."

"Seconded."

"Not helping," Natasha hissed at the boys.

Phil bit the crook off a candy cane. Everyone winced. His movements were disturbing their map, but nobody cared about those nuts anyway. "Now I find out one of my best friends is informing on me, my team might be riddled with Hydra, my other best friend might be Hydra but we can't possibly confirm it, the organization to which I've devoted my entire life is actually _Hydra_ —"

"It's more of a Hydra incubator," Bucky said.

"Everything I've ever believed in is a lie. Which shouldn't surprise me as much as it does."

Bucky somehow got a nip in on Steve's earlobe. "Speaking as someone who's been gaslighted for seventy years, it can't all be lies. Steve really does have a honey-and-nougat center."

Steve murmured, "I get the first reference, oddly enough. What's the second one?"

"You've got a Girl Scout cookie." After a moment, he whispered, "There's some internet thing about how it freezes well, I'll tell you later."

Sam was saying, "Far be it from me to invalidate a case of the holiday blues and worldwide evil conspiracy... but man, you got it good."

"Wilson's right," said Natasha.

Coulson was startled. "Wha, what?" He searched Melinda for a clue, but she remained opaque.

Natasha actually laughed. "Come on, Phil. You're crouched over a crackling fire, _plotting to take down Hydra with Captain America and Bucky Barnes._ "

Steve resisted the urge to strike a heroic pose. Christ, he was trained like a dog. Bucky caught it, of course, and with a smirk, tugged him back by the front of his t-shirt.

Without inflection, Melinda said, "You should be ecstatic. It's like I don't even know you."

Bucky commented, "Actually we wouldn't light a fire this big, even behind Allied lines. Right?"

"Yeah," said Steve. "The fellows used me for firewood. Get enough rations in me, and I turn into a furnace."

Coulson took this all in. He looked at May, and all she could do was shrug.

"Yay?" said Phil. "Somehow this is not how I imagined it."

"You mean being in good company?" said Natasha. Frost was touching the edges of her smile, again. "It's just us misfit toys. We all thought we knew what our purpose was. Couldn't imagine anything else. If we told our lies, we were only protecting the rest of the world. Didn't matter if they trusted us or not."

"Nat?" Steve asked, more soberly.

Sam reached over to knuckle along her forearm, gently. "It'll all work out, Ms Natasha."

Bucky cleared his throat. He held Steve tight. "I'm not the one for speeches. Hell, tonight's the most yapping I've done in months. Years." He kissed the hinge of Steve's jaw, like he couldn't help himself. "None of us can trust each other. You too, Steve. We have to question. I have," and Steve felt his whole body curl like a paper on fire, then unwind, like he wanted to burrow into Steve's arms and never leave. "I have had enough of blind obedience. But... we've broken bread together. We've got our barrels pointed in the same direction. And we have a target."

"Hear, hear," said Steve.

"Yeah, hell, a toast!" Sam surged forward and raised a glass.

Melinda clinked her mug without comment.

Phil seemed stunned to realize that he was invited. "To keeping a light on," he said at last.

"To friends," said Sam. 

Steve formed a V with his fingertips, and touched Bucky's face. "We could ring in the new year with no more Hydra. I won't count that blessing till it's done, but hours ago? We didn't have a shot at all." He took a deep breath. "Natasha, do you think you can convince Nick to get on board with this?"

"I might have better luck with Hill. If he suspects me..." 

"I'll come with you."

Everyone turned to Melinda.

She said, "I'll talk to Nick. We'll convince him together."

Natasha had exhibited a cornucopia of silences all night long. This time, she was speechless.

Beside him, Steve felt Bucky exhale, slow, and the smile straining to escape.

Melinda gave her a small nod. She turned to Coulson. "It can't be you, Phil. There are some benefits to staying dead. We may need that."

Steve began to move their ornaments. "Once you're cleared, the Bus will be needed to evacuate loyal SHIELD agents." At that, Phil straightened. Galvanized. "Do you need backup for that, if Melinda can't be spared? Do we have a Clint?"

Natasha presented a penguin. "Flightless bird. Get it?"

"I'm telling Clint," said Steve.

"I'm telling Clint you're sucking face with Bucky Barnes." Who was practically a patron saint among snipers.

"He can keep secrets." Steve consulted Bucky.

Bucky looked from one to the other. "Done," he said.

Suddenly Sam pointed at them. "You didn't eat all the Halloween candy, did you. You gave him the rest of it."

"Maybe," said Bucky.

"Was this before or after you did the nasty in my momma's powder room?!"

"It wasn't that nasty," Bucky started, at the same time as Steve said, "We did not...!"

"Have the chance?" said Nat. 

"Natasha, I am blaming you for this," said Steve plaintively.

"We're leaking the truth about Captain America and his bus," said Nat.

"The one he throws you under! Boom." Sam gestured an explosion.

"Bucky, stop laughing." Steve wasn't quite a bowlful of jelly, but he was being rocked against Bucky's bulk. It was exhilarating.

"Dude, it's too bad we can't connect to WiFi, I can ask my sister if there's footage."

Steve paled. "What?"

"The internet would love this shit. Happy new year—"

"Nat swept your place clean of bugs!"

"That doesn't count home surveillance, big guy. You know that inspirational sign up next to the mirror? Mmhm."

Hastily, Bucky rubbed Steve's arms. "Easy. I cleared the room." He nuzzled him soothingly. "Stevie, he's lying through his two front teeth."

Sam clutched at his heart. "Ay, not cool! I am still getting over that song. The trauma persists."

"What song?" murmured Bucky.

"You are full of bullshit, my friend. Your iPod's next to your knives."

"Get your own knives. Only Steve is allowed to touch my knives."

Steve opened his hands. God, he loved his family. This was perfect. This was bliss. "Can I make it up to you, Sam?"

Sam let it simmer for a minute. "This is probably my punishment for introducing you to selfies. Here, how about you turn up the yule log..." Belatedly he noticed their fuel was running low.

"There's half a cord of wood around the corner, by the bookcase," said Bucky.

"You don't keep an axe in your jacket?" said Sam.

Steve hoisted himself to his feet, and stretched out his arms. He was thrumming with energy. With _purpose_. Catching Bucky's eye, he said, "Don't need an axe."

### Instead of Sheep

"Safety glasses or stand back!" warned Sam. "Or someone really will lose an eye."

The rip-crack of splintering wood echoed throughout the apartment.

Botanicals 2, Captain America 1.

"Shit," said Natasha.

"Oh my goodness, Barnes has the vapors!" Sam laughed.

Melinda smirked. "So does Phil."

At Bucky's glare, Phil waved desperately. "Anyone would! That was very... impressive."

"If you're a good boy, Cap will autograph your buche de noel before he marches off," said Melinda in a beautiful deadpan.

Bucky was valiantly trying to recover. "That's within my skillset, you know," he groused.

Steve placed the hand-split log in the fire. "No fair. You can do it one-handed, Buck."

"Wait a second, I can do one better." Bucky went to the kitchen, going around Sam who was spreading out his wing pack on the table. "Saw you got one of these." He placed a chocolate orange in the center of the kitchen counter.

Drawn by the prospect of a good show, everyone gathered around. Bucky paused; then he popped something in his arm like he was cracking his knuckles. The arm went dead. Steve struggled to keep his mouth shut as Bucky peeled the foil off the orange, one-handed, with the same dexterity as he'd demonstrated with the actual fruit. Then he placed a metal finger on top of the orange. "No power, no pressure, got it?" With the smallest force possible, he tapped his other thumb on the metal.

The sphere fell apart into segments like a perfect chocolate flower.

Everyone applauded.

"I don't often say shit is neat, but that is neat," said Sam.

"Few more of those, I can work up to a matinee," said Bucky. With a hitch, he restored his arm's functions.

Natasha had her chin in her hands, studying the central stem. "Now you have to eat it. Fingerprints."

"The metal doesn't have—"

"Your right ring finger brushed the chocolate."

"You're mistaken."

"Eat the chocolate, Bucky— ack!" Steve got a mouthful of orange-flavored chocolate. He definitely had to change his opinion of oranges.

"While Melinda and Phil plot extraction points, you should get back to sweeping the apartment," Natasha pronounced. "Yes, you, Steve. You're terrible at cleaning up after yourself. You'll have to find the bugs on your own sooner or later. Tony's going to roll out a mini-JARVIS for every home, and you'll still be sucking face in other people's bathrooms."

"Start with the dishes," Bucky suggested.

"This is because I left you to do all the dishes at our apartment, isn't it," said Steve, obediently going off to clear the living room.

"I don't remember you doing that, but now that you've told me? Yes."

"Damn it." It took him a minute to realize Natasha had disappeared and left him with the chore.

Steve was trying to tidy the living room, listening to Sam explaining the inner workings of the wing-pack, when Natasha returned. 

She placed the backpack on the couch. "You got me a gift. It's traditional to reciprocate."

"You don't have to..."

All sound died in Steve's throat as Natasha held a small, square velvet box before him.

She might as well have shown him a pulled pin. 

Bucky, sensing something was up, craned to look from across the apartment. Everyone else followed suit.

Steve had no idea what Nat's face was showing because he was staring at her hands—heat suffusing his face—as she opened the box.

Catching the light was a glittering set of Widow's Bites.

There was a silence.

"It disables his arm," Natasha said quietly.

"O-oh." Steve swallowed. "Oh. Thank you, Nat. That, that means a lot." In the corner of his eye, he could sense Bucky nodding, but he couldn't look over. His heart was fluttering like he still had a condition.

Then Sam started laughing. "Your face!" he howled. "Rogers, I didn't know it was _like that_."

Steve made himself turn. He caught the moment when Bucky's confusion morphed into widened eyes.

"My mother made my father re-propose," said Phil mildly. His attention was squarely on the array of paper maps. "She wouldn't have the anniversary competing with a holiday. That, and he did it at the company Christmas party." Melinda made a commiserating sound.

Slowly, Bucky went back to rolling out one of the cookie doughs. The apron he was wearing fit him very well.

Steve mumbled another thank-you to Natasha. "It'll go a long way," he said.

This time Natasha didn't smirk. She squeezed his shoulder.

"Keep it safe," Bucky said in a normal voice. At that distance, well within earshot of a supersoldier. Their eyes met across the room. Shutting down the arm was invaluable when it came to subduing the Winter Soldier, which was one less burden off Bucky's mind. One less worry for Steve.

Then... it'd be a new year soon.

"Time comes, don't fucking write a speech, Steven," Sam called, clutching his chest like all the laughter had hurt him. "Listen to your elders — gush like a fool. And don't drop nothin' out of those sausage fingers unless you want a hundred camera-phone videos of your patriotic ass crawling around pawing at the floor."

"I love you too, Sam!" Steve yelled.

*

Steve thought he'd wiped the fingerprints off all the ornaments. Maybe. 

Natasha came up beside him. "I was looking for him, you know. For years. A present to myself, a reminder that I was on the nice list. I'm glad I didn't find him. I would've been doing Hydra's work."

In the kitchen, Sam and Bucky were trying to carve the Yalda patterns into the actual fruit. Steve had told himself not to be too alarmed when they pointed knives at each other.

"...no, no, not Urban Dictionary!" said Sam.

"But I'm supposed to be in my thirties and out of touch," said Bucky.

Melinda flipped through a handwritten ledger. "Advanced techniques, Wilson."

"Spooks," grumbled Sam. "Get me some gingerbread dudes, I will school you on appropriation."

Phil took a spatula to the cookies which had passed his rigorous inspection. (He was wielding a straight edge and two pairs of chopsticks.)

Steve fancied that he was a little better at reading Natasha. He opened an arm. "May I?"

Natasha allowed the half-hug.

They stared at the fire.

If Steve were a cast-iron idiot, he'd say something trite about home being where one found it... except Nat would call him out for being a hypocrite, and besides, Steve wasn't certain she thought of 'home' the same way ordinary people did.

She felt it, though.

Maybe Melinda had been on to something. "Nick _is_ compromised," said Steve quietly.

"You don't have to make excuses for him."

If he listened hard enough, he could tell how brittle she still was.

"I mean," said Steve. "If Bucky had come at me. The Fist of Hydra. I wouldn't have believed it. I wouldn't know who to trust. Or how to trust. Nick's been at this a long time. Maybe we're not his oldest friends, but we... are. I think."

"Inasmuch as Fury has friends," said Natasha. After a moment, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Merry Christmas," she said. "Let's kick their asses."

*

Natasha was holding the Clint-penguin, and making up with Phil by the bookcases. As Steve kept an ear towards Bucky and Melinda hashing out their battle-plan for the Bus, Sam approached.

"What your friend did wasn't very nice," Sam Wilson said.

The wing-pack was hanging from his hand. He hadn't let go of it since removing all the vulnerable components. 

His double set of tags were around his neck, like always.

"I'll talk to him," said Steve. "He didn't know. At least, I don't think he did."

"Nah, I get it."

"You want to talk?"

"It just... gets harder every Christmas, you know?"

"Yeah." Steve stared at his feet. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"He'd be stoked if he knew I had my wings, though. Don't say 'stoked,' people don't say that anymore."

"Just old dudes like you?"

"Ha, ha."

Steve found himself trying to be small. He couldn't bring himself to correct it. "Sam, you'll be watching his six. If he goes bad, if they start to take him in, you'll have to hit him in the mouth."

Sam looked at him, eyes serious. Full of steel. "Got it."

"And I can't thank you enough for that. He's the most important... anything in my life, and I wouldn't want anyone else watching his back."

"Not even Natasha?"

"They have some weird Russian thing. She could shoot him in the face and call it a favor."

"Yikes."

"You'll be all right, Sam. We've all got angels on our shoulders, you know? You'll do him proud."

"Damn it, Steve. Bring it in." They hugged, and not just for Sam's half-joking manly contact quota. "Where would you be without me, huh? You'd be a big sad Dorito."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Anytime."

*

After Melinda stridently objected, Steve agreed. "Jim hated that movie, too. He crossed it off my list himself before he went into hospice. He said it was all right until..."

"Exactly," said Melinda.

Bucky had his metal hand in the middle of a gingerbread cottage, ostensibly holding up the walls while they dried, and possibly stashing contraband inside. "I wouldn't rewatch it either. That bit didn't make sense."

"How so?" Melinda said.

"I remember a real chop suey place..."

"Oh!" said Steve. "Mrs. Gan's!"

"I think we ate there all the time," said Bucky. "Of course I can't remember the name of her place."

"Neither can I, I'm afraid. All I can remember is Mrs. Gan running the show. Back then I was allergic to most of the menu. She sent over a basket of dumplings when Ma passed, though. I didn't even know she knew us."

"Point being, I knew what Cantonese sounded like before Hydra pumped it into me," said Bucky.

"Food does bring back memories," said Melinda. She sounded... wistful. Which Steve gathered was not the usual look on her. "On Christmas Day, she had a reserved table for her and all her Jewish friends. She probably told them about it in the first place. Oh, she was so mad when we had to _relocate_. 'How do I fill out the mahjongg table now!' Never mind that she had more than three friends."

"We have vetoed all these movies, I hope you know," said Phil, who was scrolling through the television menu.

"It may have to be Charlie Brown Christmas," said Sam.

"It's jazzy, they'll like it," said Natasha. "How about you, Phil?"

"Midnight Mass when I was very, very young. I was probably too sleepy to recall much beyond Santa in the morning. Mixed marriage through my grandparents. We did the tree, until we moved to this particular region," Phil coughed as if to say _classified_ , "where it would've been inadvisable to put the menorah out on the window. I mean, we couldn't anyway."

"Snipers," said Bucky.

"Precisely. But after that, my mother barged into a bunch of rabbis eating lunch and, ah, interrogated them for all the details she'd missed from her parents. I think they admired her gumption. My father never let her live it down. Anyway, from then on we observed as best we could, every year until I signed up for SHIELD."

"I never asked, Sam," said Steve. "Do you observe Kwanzaa?"

"Funny story," said Sam. "My uncle goes all out with it. Huge party on the last day, the whole block on the guest list. My dad? Not as much. What happened was that he knew the guy who invented it—"

"No kidding," said Bucky.

"Yeah, and they had a falling-out. It's all mysterious; Dad won't get into it. Over the years, though, Dad's loosened up. He'll _coincidentally_ expound on the principles on their designated day."

"Plausible deniability," said Steve. That sounded like Sam's dad, all right. 

"Mmhm. Ma and Nana would be so tired of cooking by then, it was me and my sister's job to round up enough leftovers for a week's worth of spoonbread."

"It occurs to me," said Natasha. "We don't have five fishes, but the homeowner does have fish sticks, and I have salmon..."

"Italian?" guessed Steve.

"I was Italian for two months," said Natasha, claiming professional license.

Bucky brightened. "The owner did say it'd help if the fridge was cleaned out."

"They've got a nice dining room table," said Steve. "Move it over and there are no sightlines through the windows."

"Away from the drywall," corrected Bucky, but he was smiling glowingly. "By the brick."

"We have enough to make a quick cabbage side, and we have a potato side," said Melinda.

"There are fish cookie cutters, and one batch of dough left," said Sam.

"In that case, cookies are a side dish," said Nat.

"You are literally becoming Clint, how long was I gone?" said Phil.

"Never mind the movies, Phil," said Sam. "Put on some music."

Steve found an actual tablecloth. It would be worth it to be on dishwashing duty.

*

Granted, they weren't on the internet because Hydra might trace them, and there was no goose or honeyed ham on the table... and they couldn't see anything because Bucky had objected to candlelight (when there was a roaring fire reflecting off the glass cabinets). But they all sat down for a meal, with real cutlery, and for a good half-hour they didn't kill each other. 

*

"I am not saying Ariana Grande is better than Whitney Houston, fucking hell, I am not that wrong in the head," said Bucky heatedly over Steve's shoulder. "I only said I liked her Christmas tracks."

"I was fixing to invite you geezers to my cousin's Nochebuena — if we make it — and you'd better not toss that out in public," said Sam.

"The goal is staying alive," Natasha reminded, tongue in cheek. She and Sam were doing some complicated salsa, or so Steve guessed.

"Yeah, yeah." Bucky didn't crack wise about getting killed by Steve's lead feet, for which Steve was grateful. He just locked his hands on Steve's hips and didn't say a single word about Steve's lack of rhythm.

Through all the pre-battle jitters, through all the revelatory horror, under the dimmed lights and the overheated air to keep snipers at bay — Steve was unbelievably, terrifically happy. He pressed his cheek to Bucky's, scraping along the stubble.

"Something you want to tell me," Bucky murmured into his ear. "About how you panicked and dropped a plan on us?"

Steve thought back to the original plan. Plan B, now. "What'd you want me to say?" he said, to stall.

Bucky sounded a little uncertain. "We're supposed to communicate. At least, that was on the internet and it makes sense."

"It does," said Steve. He had a momentary flash of a yawning chasm, except this time it was shaped like a velvet box with something gleaming inside. Hell. Why was this so much easier with Sam? Hadn't there been a time— no, he couldn't reel them to Christmases of the past, either. He held Bucky tighter.

"I know your plan involves Cap," said Bucky. "I'm not gonna tell you it's not okay to revert."

Steve looked up to meet Bucky's eyes.

He did know. They both did. 

Bucky said, "But it is, y'know, also okay to say fuck this Cap shit, and give 'em Steve Rogers."

Steve's eyes fell shut. Plan B involved so many casualties. Jesus. He really was the product of his war.

"Shhh, honey," said Bucky. Steve felt a shift, and then lips just breezing over his eyelids.

"I'm getting greedy, Buck, and I don't know how I can deserve it," Steve whispered. 

Bucky gave it due consideration.

He was also groping Steve's ass. 

"You're allowed," Bucky said, "To write Santa for what you really want. Let someone else decide what you get." He spun them around the living room a couple more times. "...I'm only bringing it up because I'm a fully qualified and battle-tested field commander, and I pull off impossible missions undetected. I can't write a speech worth a damn, but I'll chalk that up to the bad guys never giving me a choice." 

"Next time I'll give you space to plan alongside," said Steve, chagrined. "And always feel free to tell me I'm charging down the wrong path." He ran his hands up and down Bucky's side; Bucky shivered. Nearly lost a step, and maybe some toes. "That's what I want. I want a next time."

By 0400 Bucky would be gone. Their holiday would be over. They were going to attempt the most impossible operation this side of the century mark. 

A slow, sensual grin unfurled on Bucky's mouth. "You wanna know what's stupid? Do you? The dishes are in that fancy washer, the fingerprints and DNA are cleared away, and we're gonna save the world tomorrow. Why aren't you kicking out every single soul in this place so I can get my hands on you—" 

"Okay, folks!" Steve cried. "Merry Christmas, it's been a blast to see everyone, good night!" 

"To all," said Bucky, with eyes only for Steve. "A happy holiday." 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect minor fiddling with later chapters. Update: [sexytimes have arrived](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13226601)! Sign-in. Get some.

**Author's Note:**

> (On full-view) 1: A-Leapin' | 2: Their Treasures | 3: To Ninety-Two | 4: Scary Ghost Stories | 5: Better Watch Out | 6: Needed Proof | 7: Later On We'll Conspire | 7.5: Instead of Sheep
> 
>   
> The Ornament Board **[may contain spoilers]**  
>  The Bus } unpopped popcorn / ottoman  
> Triskelion } chestnuts  
> AIM } pinecones  
> Soviet Hydra } red hots
> 
> Pierce = crushed walnut (Krampus)  
> Zola = snowglobe  
> Unnamed Winter Soldier = snowman eraser  
> Insight helicarriers = French hens
> 
> Sitwell: radiometer ornament
> 
> Steve: dessert plate (Moonracer)  
> Bucky: shooting star (Red Ryder)  
> Sharon: reindeer  
> Tony: dove ( ~~Rudolph~~ Cindy Lou / Dr. Who)  
>  Bruce: pickle (Dr. Spruce Goose)  
> Natasha: elf (Santa's Little Helper)  
> Nick: Santa (Saint Nick)  
> Sam: angel (Harold)  
> Phil: candy cane  
> Melinda: X'mas cracker  
> Clint: penguin  
> Rhodey: silver bell  
> Pepper: votive  
> Maria: shepherd  
> 
> 
> Recommended carol: Winter Wonderland (unforch none of them use 'Inuit' so I just pretend, I mean it scans perfectly)  
>  Marvin Gaye did a Christmas song (posthumously) which I am certain Sam and decent peeps everywhere would be all for.  
>  And since I've got the mic, check out Jack Johnson's version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. That postscript. 
> 
>    
> As always, unauthorized duplication and distribution prohibited. 
> 
> Gotta say, writing this fic was very much like folding fluffed egg whites: always backwards and hoping nothing breaks. In the end it was very, very difficult for the characters to drop their faith in 'St. Nick' without the harsh canon reality of, well, broad daylight.


End file.
